


good to you

by pusa



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, But also, Canon Related, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, just trust me, trust me again, trust me i promis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:22:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25672735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pusa/pseuds/pusa
Summary: Sakusa Kiyoomi is a twenty-two-year-old bestselling author from Tokyo, Japan. Last 2015, at the age of nineteen, he has successfully published two poetry books and a novel. Sources say that Sakusa was supposed to play professional volleyball but discontinued due to unsaid reasons. As of September 2016, little has been known of Sakusa’s life in the city and of his current works in the making. For more information regarding Sakusa Kiyoomi, clickhere. If you wish to buy his works, clickhere.—  	Here is the story of Omi-san and Sho.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 26
Kudos: 194





	good to you

**Author's Note:**

> hello! heavily inspired from the movie ruby sparks (2012) and [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0jUHeo-VJJQ) which is a fan(?) video of the said movie! fun fact this fic was supposed to be light and Not Angst but I looked and read at the plot of the movie far too much and (scratches head) anyways enjoy thank u love u <3

Sakusa Kiyoomi is _not_ lonely, drill that onto your minds.

He is not—even when he lives alone, in the giant country house he decided to buy, after the short success he got, besides a forest, a bit far off from the village, and so far from the city.

He is not—even when he stares at his multiple unpublished poetry and novels, eyes dark and twitching as his fingers ache to delete all two hundred files. All except for one particular folder.

He is not—even when he’s lived alone for five years, tired and vulnerable in his supposed safe space, the fear of failure and rejection creeping onto his veins and making a home inside; even when he hasn’t been outside for almost two months, the tiredness tugging at his veins for too long.

He is not—because Kiyoomi has—Kiyoomi has—he has someone, in his hands, in the words he creates, in the letters that appear at his laptop screen, there’s someone. There’s someone, inside the hidden folder he keeps amidst multiple folders so no one else can see.

Sakusa Kiyoomi isn’t lonely. He has someone. And maybe his cat.

Kiyoomi stares at the large expense of his living room, the messy and crumpled papers with his handwriting thrown everywhere and anywhere. There’s a stack of paper by his coffee table, littered with post-it notes that he’d jotted down hastily when he gets random bursts of inspiration.

He wonders when this awfully-big-for-one yet the perfect-for-two house of his became a home; when he managed to buy it through successfully publishing two poems and a novel, all three a mystery to him, of how they became successful. It was rather boring, as he rereads his previous works, how it talked of adolescence and fleeting youth, of adulthood, and the worsening fear it comes with. It was somehow a hit, giving him a chance to let his name be heard among others, at the young age of nineteen. Kiyoomi wonders, of how he wrote of loneliness and love at the ripe age of being seventeen. He wonders, of luckiness and privilege that had been given onto his weak yet eager hands.

He imagines being under a microscope, a small particle of a human in the middle of this large country house, this large wooden cabin standing at a small hilltop in the province of Japan. It was promoted as a vacation-house, yet the old realtor, eyes forgiving and filled with life, had looked at Kiyoomi and talked of its origins, how the realtor’s grandparents had lived there, then his parents.

“This was special to them,” he had said, cigarette hanging off his lips, unlit and frail, eyes vacant yet nostalgic as they sat by the porch. Kiyoomi’s mug of tea was hot yet familiar. “I’ve been waiting for someone perfect to buy it, ya know? I think you might just fit perfectly here, kid.”

 _I’m not a kid_ , Kiyoomi wanted to scream, yet the growing mold of loneliness and need for independence crawled around his veins far too much and so, he looked down at his mug instead and said loudly, “Do I? So, I can buy it?”

He looked at the realtor then, regretting to remember his name, and watched as he looked back at Kiyoomi, a smile teasing against his cigarette and he let out a chuckle, head shaking. “Sure, kid,” he laughed out, shoulders shaking. “Don’t know where you kids get the money, but sure. You get the house.”

At the age of twenty-two, Kiyoomi’s been living independently for three years, money still coming to him despite the years, despite the growing worry of growing old seeping into his bones. At the age of twenty-two, Kiyoomi is still the favorite grandson, despite leaving home, despite leaving his family, despite leaving the busy city life, despite leaving everything behind to focus on writing. At the age of twenty-two, Kiyoomi hasn’t written anything in three years. Except.

Under the microscope, Kiyoomi is nothing but a small particle floating in the middle of a large expense of wooden space, too big for one. Under the microscope, Kiyoomi worries and flurries, of independence, of expenses, of loneliness. Under the microscope, Kiyoomi shouts at empty walls and at empty couches and at empty beds; shouts out his anger, out the _i didn’t need all of grandpa’s inheritance, i have all the money i need!_ shouts out the words he wishes he could’ve said. His elder sister had calmed him down, even though it reminded him of how much more successful she is than him, how her life is perfect and planned down, unlike his; she’d told him of their grandfather and of his sharp tongue, of his growing worriedness for Kiyoomi and his unstable path to life. Kiyoomi didn’t know if he was thankful for him or not.

Under the microscope, Kiyoomi is holding Momo, a fat, orange cat, squirmy and soft in his arms.

Under the microscope, Kiyoomi thinks and worries, of the future, of the ever-growing loneliness and aloneness, of anxiety and nausea.

Under the microscope, Kiyoomi stares at his laptop, throughout the three years, typing of a character, typing of someone, a story, a novel.

Under the microscope, Kiyoomi can pretend he isn’t lonely through the story he creates through his hands, unwilling and desperate.

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu shouts once he walks inside the door, making Kiyoomi jump from where he’s sitting by the couch. He turns to the front door and frowns. Atsumu’s carrying four paper bags. “You’re lonely.”

“Why are you here,” Kiyoomi deadpans, and Atsumu groans loudly, walking quickly over to the kitchen. Kiyoomi can hear the ruffling of paper bags and bottles clanking together onto his kitchen table and he quickly dog-ears his page and puts down the book he was reading. As he stands up, a flurry of orange flashes by his feet and he lets out a small smile as he bends down and picks up his cat.

“Hello, Momo,” he murmurs and lets out a laugh at how Momo blinks at him. He walks over to the kitchen and frowns again at the sight of Atsumu putting numerous containers inside his fridge, quickly identifying the familiar 7/11 microwave-able meals. Momo kicks at his chest and he bends down to let him jump onto the floor and to smell around the paper bags Atsumu placed on the floor.

“You didn’t have to buy me food.”

“Hm?” Atsumu says, head inside Kiyoomi’s, probably dying due to lack of food inside, refrigerator. “I didn’t. ‘Samu forced me to buy you some. Says you probably haven’t eaten in days.”

Kiyoomi blinks. That…was not true. Kiyoomi’s been eating. Ramen. Maybe some stale chips. Coffee.

“Ramen isn’t good food,” Atsumu says, standing up straight and opening drawers and cabinets and taking out canned goods from another paper bag. Kiyoomi thinks he’s probably stating what Osamu’s said. “’Samu says so. Says you need more nutrition and stuff.”

“Are you just here to stuff my fridge with food and repeat what Osamu’s said to you?”

Atsumu puts down a can of sausages rather harshly and the sound makes Momo jump and scutters around the kitchen before running to the living room. Kiyoomi matches Atsumu’s glare and they both look at each other before Atsumu sighs.

“Look,” he starts, playing with another can of food as he leans against Kiyoomi’s counter. He looks so—fresh, so out of place inside Kiyoomi’s cabin, his clothes neat and from the city, amidst the old wooden smell of Kiyoomi’s house. “I’m serious, Omi-kun. I haven’t seen you in almost a _month_. You don’t even reply to some of our texts. I’m not sure if you’re sleeping or eating or if you’re _okay_.”

Kiyoomi looks at Atsumu’s worried eyes and bites at his bottom lip, chest curdling and tightening. “I know you want your privacy because you’re writing and your novels,” Atsumu continues, hands tightening on the can before he sighs and turns to the cabinets again, putting it inside. “But it doesn’t hurt to text back, you know?”

Kiyoomi looks at him with furrowed brows and lets his words sink deep into him, looks at how Atsumu looks so different and far away. “I’m not lonely.”

“Huh?” Atsumu voices out and moves away from the counter to fold all four paper bags laying messily around the counter and on the floor. “If you say so.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Kiyoomi presses on and stands up straight to glare at Atsumu. The other only looks at him with a blank stare and shrugs.

“All right, Omi-kun,” he shrugs. “You aren’t lonely. Now, go eat.”

“I will,” Kiyoomi murmurs and glares as Atsumu walks closer and fixes him a pointed look.

“Reply to our texts,” Atsumu says, eyes dark and serious. “I have to go; I still have to meet up with Bokkun and Osamu.”

“Okay,” Kiyoomi mutters. “I will.”

Kiyoomi stays in the kitchen and listens as Atsumu plays with Momo, whose meows echo around the house, and tries to convince himself that he isn’t lonely.

“Omi!” He hears Atsumu shout and doesn’t move from his position. “Join us for volleyball next time, yeah? Your story can wait!”

The sound of the front door closing echoed throughout the house and Kiyoomi looks down to see Momo rubbing himself against his leg. He looks up and meows. Kiyoomi sighs.

“I’m not lonely,” he says to Momo. “Right, Momo? I have you.”

Kiyoomi watches as Momo walks away, tail swaying. Kiyoomi sighs.

Here is the thing: Kiyoomi isn’t lonely. He has someone, not just Momo.

He has someone; someone he’s created, someone he’s written, throughout the endless and tiresome nights, throughout the mold and bubble of anxiety and depression and loneliness Kiyoomi’s been through. There’s someone. Someone with…

Someone with gentle eyes and bright laughter. Cheeks high and bright with color, laughter trickling into every word he says. Eyes that are bright with color yet darken in focus, in sense, in love. Hands that are gentle against Kiyoomi’s.

He’s been everywhere, in Kiyoomi’s mind, in Kiyoomi’s hands, in Kiyoomi’s journal, in Kiyoomi’s cluster of post-it notes littered everywhere in the house, in Kiyoomi’s laptop.

He doesn’t have a face in Kiyoomi’s mind, but he imagines—no, _knows_ —that he’s bright; beautiful. If bright and beautiful were a person, it would be him.

He’s everything Kiyoomi is not, yet Kiyoomi still wrote of him.

And yeah, maybe it’s a problem, how Kiyoomi has long hunched over his desks, writing of some boy he’s probably had feelings for now, despite not giving him a proper name, or a proper face, even after two years of writing about him.

But he calls him something. Calls him Sho. Or tangerine. Because Kiyoomi thinks orange is the ugliest yet somehow the prettiest color, and it reminds him of Sho because Kiyoomi is a bit mean and teasing sometimes. But sometimes, he’d call him angel, if Kiyoomi was feeling a little too lonely and sappy that day.

But always Sho. He’d always call him Sho.

Soar. Fly.

Something Kiyoomi never had the guts to do.

Despite everything, even inside Kiyoomi’s supposed haven, he can think of him. Even if he’d drop everything to be with him.

(Maybe Kiyoomi really is going insane.)

A week later finds Kiyoomi sitting outside on his porch, the night air chilling his arms as Momo sleeps in his lap. He takes a deep breath, listens to the trees, listens to the wind around him, listens to the stars, listens to the night sky. Somewhere, an owl hoots. Somewhere, cicadas scream. Everywhere, soft yet rumbling thunder around them.

Kiyoomi looks at the night sky and rests a hand on Momo’s purring stomach. “Looks like it’s gonna rain,” he mumbles to himself. It hasn’t rained in months.

In Kiyoomi’s almost-safe haven, he calms down. Momo’s purr is loud and rumbly against his ears and Kiyoomi takes a sip of his tea. He puts it down by the table beside him and stares at the other chair in front of him. He feels as if it’s taunting him, mocking him, empty, lonely, and alone.

Kiyoomi sighs and looks down at his notebook. He opens the familiar black notebook and writes, tries to write, writes.

_Who fell first? Was it me or him? Or was it something that ~~just happened so naturally~~ just happened between us, ~~something only we could know~~?_

_It was just this: he fell in love with me, and as I, with him._

_It was just this: I woke up one day with him on my mind, and coincidentally, me on his. He woke up, I woke up and thought: maybe that’s how everything works. I fall in love with you, you fall in love with me._

_What a boring, romantic cliché._

Kiyoomi closes his notebook, hands shaking. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He listens to Momo’s purring and opens his notebook again.

_Loneliness is a constant presence in my life, is it a person? or an object? It aims to poke at me, mock me with its presence, and to remind me of its power over me. Today, I think of love and loneliness. Momo purrs and meows. I think of what would be inside Momo’s mind, if he thinks about me, if he thinks about my stupidity, about my idiocy._

_I miss love. I miss affection. If I ever experience love and affection, would I cry? I haven’t been touched by anyone for over a year. I haven’t talked with anyone for almost a year. Maybe except for Atsumu. Or Komori._

_I wish he was real._

A crash of sudden thunder rumbles from around them and he looks up in shock, the pages of his notebook fluttering loudly and crazily before he closes it in fright. Momo meows softly in his sleep and Kiyoomi turns to him, shaky hands coming up to rub at the top of his head. The wind whips at his cheeks and he shivers at the screams the trees make; the sudden loudness of the owl hooting, flying closer and closer; the grass that’s close to his house, flying and hitting each other with vigorous force and hatred. Kiyoomi stares at it all and feels like he’s experiencing a moment he isn’t supposed to be experiencing.

(He had heard whispers once, of angry gods and monsters inside the forest. Had heard of the rumors and whispers of the haunted house, of the haunted realtor. He imagines if this was his fate, to be surrounded by angry beings, all out to seek revenge on mortals.)

“Momo,” he whispers to the cat and Momo leans his head away from his paws to glare at Kiyoomi. “Momo, wake up, baby, let’s go inside.”

Momo mewls before stretching in Kiyoomi’s lap and jumping down, the warmth and heaviness of his paws disappearing. Kiyoomi stares as Momo suddenly stares at the array of trees around them, head looking around the forest before stopping at a particular blank spot. He follows his gaze and feels like he’s looking at something he shouldn’t be looking at—has looked at this familiar forest far too many times yet tonight, there is this chilling presence; haunted eyes staring back at him, even if there’s nothing.

Kiyoomi feels like he’s reached the end of his life. He’s quick to stand up, hands trembling and shaking as they wrap around his journal. A crackling and loud sound of thunder startles him out of his stare and he lets out a gasp. He looks away from the forest and looks down at Momo, still staring.

“Okay, come on, let’s go,” Kiyoomi scoops Momo into his arms and turns to the table to grab at his mug, hissing at the sudden coldness of his mug that was scolding hot seconds ago. Thunder and sudden flashes of lightning accompany him as he holds Momo close to his chest. Kiyoomi bows down to the forest around his house, murmuring a _thank you_ for giving him safety and a soft _goodnight,_ and speedily walks inside his house, quickly dropping Momo to the ground and setting down his cup by the floor.

Kiyoomi turns to his door and locks it, all five locks, and heaves out a heavy sigh. His hand lingers on the last lock, a bolt and lock, above a chain lock, and stares at the harsh trembling of his hands. He thumps his forehead gently against the wooden door and sighs, listens to the howling wind outside. “I’m going insane,” he mumbles to himself.

Sakusa Kiyoomi. An isolated writer living in an isolated house surrounded by trees and forest, in a probably isolated province in Japan, going insane. Shocker.

In Kiyoomi’s dream, he finds himself inside the forest near his house, the moss and dirt warm and wet beneath his bare feet. He looks around, smells the petrichor and the trees and the plants, and breathes. He closes his eyes and breathes. The sun shines down on him through the spaces of the trees above him, large and looming. The sunlight is warm and familiar against his skin, even in the dream.

In this dream, he stays planted on where he is, looking down at his bare feet and watching as the dirt and leaves crawl up towards him. The vines and leaves are wet against his skin, and the dirt feels like some massage. Kiyoomi wonders if this is okay, if he can stay in this dream, eaten by the earth.

In this dream, Kiyoomi hears laughter and voices around him, almost as if they’re mocking him. The dirt and grass cover up his ears and he closes his eyes, lets the vines crawl up his face, and to envelope him. He feels the vines wrap itself around his body and arms, hugging him tightly. Kiyoomi hasn’t been hugged in years.

The voices talk of the sun, of a boy, crafted from the sun itself, of laughter that twinkles like the stars, of eyes that rival the sunlight itself.

Kiyoomi gets himself dragged down into the earth and accepts his fate.

When Kiyoomi wakes up, it’s to sunlight gracing the side of his face and his blanket inside his mouth. “Jesus,” he mutters, pulling the blanket away from him and pats around his bed, trying to find Momo. His hand hits his bed uneventfully and emptily. Kiyoomi sighs, resting his head on his pillow. Even in the early morning, Momo has already left him to be lonely and alone.

Kiyoomi stays in bed for a moment longer, letting his fingers dance around the sunlight and for his skin to warm up to the gentle and warm sun. When he stretches against the rays of the sun and his bones creak and ache, he suddenly remembers his dream. He pauses and blinks. Huh. What a weird dream that was.

When he stands, he thinks if something weird happened today, something new. There’s this—this _something_ in the air. He looks around his room and wonders if there’s anything new. (There’s none.)

And so, Kiyoomi tries to start his day normally.

He was about to decide on making a sandwich or maybe go back to eating instant ramen when the door opens and his shoulders sag. Is it Atsumu again? Jesus. Kiyoomi walks over to the front door, beginning to think of some rant on how it’s _barely_ been a week and he’s a _grown man_ , he doesn’t need some babysitter—

There’s laughter.

Kiyoomi freezes. That’s not Atsumu’s laugh.

This laugh, it was soft, a little innocent, a little childish, yet a lot of love held inside of it.

“Momo!” it was said through laughter and Kiyoomi feels his breathing quicken, feet moving on its own towards the front door. “Look at your paws, you fat boy! They’re so dirty! I told you—”

“ _Hello?_ ”

Kiyoomi stands frozen. Light frames a boy by the door, carrying Momo, whose tail is wagging and rubbing his head by the boy’s face. Kiyoomi feels his heartbeat quicken and for his hands to shake as the boy turns to him, stepping closer. He wants to step back, to avoid this stranger who’d easily walked inside his fucking home, acting like it’s his and _playing with Momo_. Somewhere, nearing the house and forest, someone’s bicycle rings. He doesn’t even know how someone managed to bicycle their way upwards the hill. To willingly bike around Kiyoomi’s supposed haunted house and forest.

“Omi-san!” he laughs, standing in front of him as his free hand rubs at Momo’s chin. “Good morning!”

Who the fuck is this guy? Going inside Kiyoomi’s house like it’s _his_ and calling him _Omi-san_?

“What the fuck?” Kiyoomi croaks out, his throat still so dry after waking up. The boy tilts his head and Kiyoomi furrows his brows at him, squaring his shoulders. The boy’s eyes are orange and bright yet still littered with worry. Kiyoomi watches as the light from the door haloes around him, making his orange shine even brighter.

Who just has orange hair, casually? Naturally? What the fuck?

“Omi-san?” he asks and walks closer to him. Kiyoomi feels frozen. In his arms, Momo squirms and this gets the boy’s attention again. Kiyoomi wants to snatch him away from the stranger yet his hands shake and tremble. “Momo, love, are you okay? Do you need cuddles?”

“How the fuck do you know Momo?” Kiyoomi spits out and the boy looks back at him again in shock. “Why is he letting you hold him like that?”

Kiyoomi wants to push the guy out of his house yet the boy’s worried gaze on him makes him feel frozen to the ground. He tilts his head, “Momo? Our cat? Are you okay, Omi-san? We literally bought him because you said we look alike.”

And then, the boy brings Momo up to his face and grins brightly and Kiyoomi feels his breath catch in his throat. The boy laughs as Momo nuzzles his head onto his cheek and a paw comes up to the boy’s chin. “Momo, no! Omi-san’s gonna hate me for your dirty paws!”

In an instant, Kiyoomi takes Momo away from him and he feels his shoulders relax a little at the familiarity and warmth of Momo. The boy’s words echo in his mind as he holds Momo close and he looks at the boy wildly. “How,” he breathes out, “the fuck do you know about Momo? Who the _fuck_ are you?”

This time, the boy doesn’t hide the hurt and confusion in his eyes as his brows furrow and a frown forms on his lips. “What’s wrong with you, Omi-san?” he asks in frustration. “Have you forgotten? We got Momo _together_. I wanted the cute black cat, but you said let’s pick Momo because he’s _orange_. Reminds you of _me_.”

Momo kicks at Kiyoomi’s chest and he lets him jump down. Kiyoomi stares at the boy in front of him, hurt and confused. He listens to the way Momo runs away, his meows echoing around the silence. Kiyoomi stares at the boy in front and thinks, _what the fuck is this freak weirdo talking about? The cute black cat? Orange?_

“What the fuck—” Kiyoomi starts to say when he cuts himself off, the memory drifting into his mind so quickly.

_I couldn’t admit it then, but I wanted the black cat, too, but I saw Sho’s gaze at the orange one._

_How his eyes looked so happy yet so sad at how sad the cat looked, at how lonely it looked._

_Maybe it reminded him of himself. Or maybe of me. I used to be so lonely before I met him._

_Before he loved me._

_I lied to him then,_

_had lied to him for the first time._

_“I like the orange one more,” I said to him, hand held tightly with his, and Sho looked at me in question._

_I pointed to the orange cat and smiled at him. “Him,” I said and pressed a quick kiss to his temple._

_Sho elbowed me in the stomach but I knew he was gonna do it, so I pulled away, pulling him with me._

_Our laughs echoed around the empty store, employees turning to us in question._

_I pulled Sho closer, our laughter mixing in together. “Reminds me of you,” I whispered to his ear,_

_smiling when I felt the warmth of his familiar blush. “Kitty Sho.”_

— Sakusa Kiyoomi, _Excerpts from a novel I’d never publish,_ [unnamed chapter]

Kiyoomi feels like he’s been punched. “Sho?”

The boy turns to him with a glare, cheeks red. “ _What_?”

Kiyoomi can almost hear the mocking laughter.

“What the _fuck_ ,” he freaks out, finally taking a step back and looking at the boy— _Sho_ , in front of him. Fuck. “Who the fuck are you? Is this some sick joke? How the fuck are you real—I’m really going fucking insane—oh my god—”

“ _Kiyoomi!_ ”

Kiyoomi cuts himself off at the sudden loudness of his voice and he focuses his gaze on Sho, feels his breathing quicken and then to slow down at the red in Sho’s cheeks, his teeth biting down harshly on his bottom lip and his glossy eyes.

“What’s wrong with you today?” Sho croaks out, chest heaving and voice suddenly so quiet and different from the loudness earlier. Kiyoomi blinks, takes the sudden silence to breathe deeply, to look at Sho. Kiyoomi feels it then—the slow rise of guilt and regret that comes up from his stomach to his chest, and then to his throat. Sho’s eyes are doe-like and large yet they hold such sadness inside of them as he looks at Kiyoomi, lips wobbly and trembling. “What’s wrong with you, Kiyoomi?”

Kiyoomi feels like he’s looking at some Hollywood drama actor. His eyes are filled with tears, yet they look at Kiyoomi with such intensity and love.

Then, Sho sniffles and a hand comes up to wipe harshly at his eyes and he turns around and walks away, walks out of the door.

“Fuck.” Kiyoomi says then, watching as the light engulfs Sho’s body and he brings a hand up to his hair, pulling at it harshly. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. “Fuck.”

Kiyoomi stares out at the open door and looks down at his feet when he feels Momo bump his head against his leg. “I fucked up,” he whispers to Momo. “Momo, can I fuck up? Towards him?” _Towards someone who I don’t even know if he’s real or not?_

Momo looks up at him and meows. “God,” Kiyoomi groans out and runs a hand over his face. “Yeah, I fucked up.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t know why but, _god_ , he follows Sho. Goes outside without socks, without shoes, without a comfy jacket to protect him, just to follow Sho and—and what? Apologize? For being a dick because, in all his entirety, Sho’s someone Kiyoomi has made up?

Kiyoomi can’t help but follow him outside, feels like he’ll regret it if he doesn’t.

When Kiyoomi steps outside, feet touching the warm porch floor, his eyes squint against the sun and he looks out at the forest, at the gentle swaying of the trees and lets out a noise of surprise.

Sho’s sitting just on the ground in front of the house, fingers playing with the grass next to him.

Kiyoomi thinks he looks like a painting.

_Sho doesn’t like being angry with me, as am I with him._

_I think it’s one of the things I love so much about him. He doesn’t get angry too easily,_

_he doesn’t leave me._

_He walks away but he doesn’t leave. He’s always just right outside the door, still in my grasp._

— from a post-it note, hastily put inside Kiyoomi’s journal

Kiyoomi sighs and takes a deep breath. He puts on one of the sandals he keeps by his door and runs a hand through his hair, walking over to Sho. His footsteps are quiet, and he tries to control his breathing, his shaking hands, and stands next to Sho. He looks and smiles at Sho’s pout and fingers tightening their grip on the grass.

“I know you’re smiling,” Sho mumbles, “stop. I’m still angry.”

Kiyoomi bites the inside of his cheek and squats next to him, not wanting to sit on the ground. He bumps his shoulders softly against Sho’s and he mumbles out, “I’m sorry.”

Sho stays quiet but he does bump his shoulder against Kiyoomi’s. Kiyoomi finds comfort in biting on his bottom lip again and he says, “I’m really sorry, Sho. I don’t—I know I can’t explain myself right now but I’m really sorry.”

“Why?”

“What?” Kiyoomi asks him, moving closer and lets his eyes focus on Sho’s hand and the grass. “What do you mean?”

“Why?” Sho turns to him abruptly and Kiyoomi jumps at the proximity of their faces. Sho’s brows furrow and he frowns. “See. Why are you so jumpy, Omi-san? Why can’t you explain yourself? What’s wrong with you today?”

Kiyoomi meets Sho’s gaze and offers a sheepish smile. “Bad morning?” he tries to excuse himself and Sho pouts even more, rosy lips jutting out and Kiyoomi stares at them.

“Bad morning?” Sho muses and looks at him with worry. “Omi-san, I know you’re forgetful but that was different. Are you sure you’re okay? Can’t you talk to me?”

Kiyoomi lets out a soft laugh at Sho’s chide at his forgetfulness and he looks back at him again, this time, hopefully with more apparent regret in his eyes. “Bad morning,” he says again, this time with more force. “I’m sorry, Sho. I really am.”

Sho bites his lip and Kiyoomi focuses on the reddening lips and wonders if they’re as soft as it looks—as soft as he’d written them before.

“I’m sorry,” Kiyoomi says again, “can we go back inside, please?”

Sho looks at him then and he smiles softly. Kiyoomi watches the way his cheeks push up a little, eyes brightening already. “You won’t freak out again?”

Kiyoomi laughs and shakes his head. “I won’t.”

He stands up and offers a hand down for Sho, who’s quick to take his hand and to stand up. He’s just by Kiyoomi’s nose and he wants to kiss him.

“If you say so,” Sho hums and doesn’t let go of Kiyoomi’s hand. “Are you cooking for me today, Omi-san?”

_Sho always liked it when I cooked for him, even when I suck so bad at it._

_But what he doesn’t know, I was always practicing and practicing. Maybe one day, I’d surprise him._

— scribbled on one of the many pages of Kiyoomi’s journal

“Sure,” Kiyoomi lets himself be pulled by Sho and smiles at the warmness of his hand against his. “I’ll cook for you.”

Kiyoomi hasn’t felt this much warmth in months.

Sho is gentle yet loud, bright and happy inside Kiyoomi’s sad, little home. They eat breakfast by Kiyoomi’s (or—well, Kiyoomi and Sho’s) couch, thighs touching each other as they balance plates full of sandwiches with their hands. Kiyoomi finds it a little scary how it was so easy between them, how easy his laugh leaves out of his mouth, how Sho’s touches were familiar, even if he—even if he showed up out of nowhere.

“Omi-san,” Sho says as he feeds some of his leftover sandwiches to Momo, who’s sitting by the floor and looking up at him. “Can we go out today? I wanna bake, let’s bake today, Omi-san!”

Kiyoomi stares at him then, at his bright smile and high cheeks; small yet so, so bright in the middle of Kiyoomi’s bare and boring living room. Sho looks like he doesn’t belong, yet he does. He does.

(Here is the truth: Kiyoomi knows he doesn’t belong. Knows Sho doesn’t belong here, in the real world. But he wants him to be, wants him to belong so bad.

And so, Kiyoomi lets himself have this. Just for one day.)

“Out?” Kiyoomi muses out and bends down a little to rub the top of Momo’s head. He hasn’t been outside for almost a year. He wonders if the townspeople have concluded that he’s insane. The hermit by the hill. The delusional city boy. “Sure, Sho. We can go out.”

When he looks back at him, Sho’s eyes are gentle and his smile is even more so. Kiyoomi feels like he’s looking at someone who doesn’t deserve to be looking at him with such intensity and tenderness.

Even when his nerves are on the rise, hands trembling a little, Kiyoomi follows Sho outside and lets him convince Kiyoomi that _I should be the one riding the bicycle, Omi-san! I’m stronger! You can be my back ride!_

Kiyoomi does. Waits for Sho to sit properly, balance properly, then to grin back at Kiyoomi. “Hop on, Omi-san!”

Kiyoomi wonders if his old, yellow bicycle had a backseat all along or maybe it’s the universe telling him that _yes, your creation is alive. You’re the modern Frankenstein._

Kiyoomi sits down and leans a little closer. Leans a bit more. Then, wraps his arms around Sho’s waist, even if he has to bend down a little. Even if his face mask presses into him a little more, making him breathe a little harder.

Sho lets out a laugh and starts to move, slow and steady. “Omi-san, what are you doing?” he laughs out, body strong and stable in Kiyoomi’s grasp. He smells like oranges and earth itself. Kiyoomi tightens his hold and presses his cheek against his back.

“Nothing,” he murmurs then realizes that he has to raise his voice, as Sho goes faster and faster down the hill, the afternoon wind blowing through their cheeks. “Just holding you.”

Sho lets out a laugh, mixing in with the gentle wind and the quick rush of them breezing through the long road to the town, and Kiyoomi. He holds onto Sho and wonders if all of this is real.

It’s definitely real.

Kiyoomi groans out as he slowly stands up from the bicycle, holding onto his back. “My back hurts,” he tries not to whine and tries not to stumble among the growing afternoon crowd. He adjusts his mask higher onto his nose and groans again, trying to stand up a little straighter.

Beside him, Sho laughs loudly and Kiyoomi turns to him, a little bent over. “You’re so weird, Omi-san!” he laughs out, locking their bicycle in place before taking out Kiyoomi’s small bag from the basket on the bicycle. “You never do that to me! And you’re so tall!”

Kiyoomi feels his face heat up and he coughs out, straightening his body. “Just wanted to do it, okay?”

“You’re so weird,” Sho laughs and, so casually, so swiftly, his hand finds home in Kiyoomi’s sweaty ones. Sho laughs again, innocent and bright. “Your hands are so sweaty!”

Kiyoomi looks at him then, in all his glory and brightness and lets go of his hand for a moment. “Just a moment,” he says at Sho’s pout and takes his polaroid camera out from his bag. “Smile, angel.”

Sho doesn’t. He looks at the camera with a pout on his lips and puffed cheeks, eyes looking straight at Kiyoomi through the lens. Kiyoomi’s breath stutters and he feels his hands shake as he takes the photo.

“You and your camera,” Sho grumbles and leans closer to grab his hand again. Kiyoomi lets out a smile and waits for the photo to develop, letting himself be dragged everywhere and anywhere in the crowded town.

As they walk farther and farther, the crowd growing, Kiyoomi feels Sho slow down and to match his once-fast pace with Kiyoomi’s slower one. He looks away from the polaroid and turns his head to look at Sho, now beside him and eyes focused on the ground, cheeks red.

“What’s wrong with you?” Kiyoomi asks, moving closer to him and bending down a little to try and catch Sho’s eyes.

“Hm?” Sho looks up at him and their noses brush. Kiyoomi feels his face heat up. “Nothing, Omi-san.”

Kiyoomi looks at his blushed cheeks and flittering eyes and—

_Sho was beautiful, even if he didn’t want to be. He always wanted to shy away_

_from the attention, from the double-takes from strangers, from the flushed cheeks_

_whenever he smiles at someone, at something._

_He’d always wanted to shy away from the attention, unless it was from me._

_Sho was beautiful, whether he wanted it or not. It was almost like clockwork;_

_how people do a double-take whenever he passes by, whenever he smiles, whenever he laughs._

_Sho was beautiful. He’d always been._

— Sakusa Kiyoomi, _Excerpts from a novel I’d never publish_

Kiyoomi looks around and sees it then, the way street vendors look away from the person they’re talking to, to look at Sho, back at the person, and then to Sho again. The way the people passing by them turn their heads slightly to follow his and Sho’s walking figures. The way the old ladies look and smile at Sho, like he’s the village grandson, the village’s beloved.

Kiyoomi’s starting to think so, too.

(Kiyoomi wants to—he wants to…)

“Omi,” Sho whispers, looking up at him with a smile, finger-pointing and Kiyoomi follows it. “The market!”

“I can see, tangerine,” Kiyoomi slips out and Sho crinkles his nose at him. He lets himself be pulled by him towards the crowded area and slips the photo inside his bag. “Don’t go too crazy, yeah?”

Sho looks back at him with a smile and Kiyoomi wonders if everyone in the crowd is as enamored for Sho as he is.

Sho says he wants to bake cookies. Kiyoomi agrees, even if he doesn’t know a lick of baking.

“Omi-san,” Sho laughs but there’s a furrow on his brows and confusion on his face. “You? Don’t know baking? Right.”

Kiyoomi looks at him and wonders what image of Kiyoomi is on his mind. He wants to ask, wants to ask _why do you say that?_ , wants to ask _what version of me do you know; what version of me have i written on you?_

Instead, he brings the polaroid up to his face and snaps a photo of Sho and looking at different brands of dark chocolate.

Instead, he snaps a photo of Sho in the middle of an aisle, looking at the top shelf.

Instead, he snaps a photo of Sho squatting to look at different sizes of condensed milk.

Instead, he snaps a photo of Sho. Looking. Smiling. Laughing. Smiling at Kiyoomi behind the camera. Frowning at Kiyoomi behind the camera.

“You’re not even helping me pick ingredients,” says Sho with a pout. He watches as Kiyoomi pulls the camera away from his face and looks at him with a small smile.

Kiyoomi lets out a soft laugh and puts the new polaroid photo (Sho pouting at the camera, probably the fifth one) inside his bag. “I’m helping,” he says softly and looks back down at their small cart that’s a bit too heavy. “We already bought a lot, yeah?”

“Hm,” Sho hums then turns to him with a grin. “All right, all right, let’s go home already. I want cookies.”

Going home consists of laughter echoing through the trees and almost falling downhill as Sho laughs too much and too loudly, the bicycle almost falling from their combined weight. Sho laughs and Kiyoomi is just lucky to quickly put his foot on the ground to stop them from falling.

“Stop, stop,” Kiyoomi breathlessly says as he gets off the bicycle with a laugh. “Let me—get off, Sho—I’ll bike for us.”

Sho glares at him from his seat. “I can do it!”

Kiyoomi fixes him a look. “Don’t be stubborn,” he smiles jokingly and nods his head upwards to the hill. “We barely rode up here, angel. Let me do it.”

Sho stares at him and Kiyoomi watches as his hands tighten around the handles. “C’mon, tangerine,” he insists, “when was the last time you were the back ride?”

“I’m always the back ride!” Sho frowns and glares at him again. “Did you forget again, Omi-san? Always forgetting?”

_Ah, fuck._

“Ah, just kidding, angel,” Kiyoomi is quick to say and Sho puffs his cheeks. “All right, all right, fine. But if we fall over again, I’m doing it next, okay?”

Sho looks at him with intensity and force that Kiyoomi feels his breathing hitch. “Deal,” Sho crinkles his nose and turns to the hill. “Come on, Omi-san! I’m taking us home!”

Sho takes them home, which surprises Kiyoomi. Maybe this is how Kiyoomi comes to terms of his feelings; how Sho takes them home, bicycling uphill with Kiyoomi as back ride. When they near the cabin, Sho lets out a laugh, and Kiyoomi blinks and almost falls.

“See, Omi-san!” Sho laughs out breathlessly, looking over his shoulder for a brief moment. “I did it! You aren’t heavy at all!”

By this time, it’s a smooth ride towards the cabin and Kiyoomi leans down, wraps his arms around Sho’s body, and doesn’t even mind the sweatiness and warmth coming off of him. He stays like that until they reach home. He wonders if he can stay in this memory forever.

With flour on his cheeks and hair and hands, sitting on the counter, Sho pulls Kiyoomi close and kisses him, a smile on his lips.

In this, Sho is almost the same height as Kiyoomi. In this, Sho’s lips are soft and gentle and warm against his. In this, Kiyoomi looks at Sho’s closed eyes and flour-ridden hair and cheeks. In this, Kiyoomi closes his eyes, puts his hands on the counter, and kisses him back.

Weirdly enough, Kiyoomi thinks back to his old writing; of how he wrote that kisses felt like fireworks, felt like a rampaging zoo inside his stomach. Seventeen-year-old Kiyoomi had written kissing as if it was a rollercoaster ride: dizzying, a little scary, eccentric.

Here, Kiyoomi feels at ease, like kissing Sho is easy and natural. (Kissing Sho is easy and natural.)

Here, Kiyoomi places his hands on Sho’s waist and pulls him a little closer, Sho’s smile a permanent feeling against his lips. Somewhere, in-between, Sho’s arms find solace around Kiyoomi’s neck and he leans away from him a little, lips still brushing against Kiyoomi’s.

“Omi-san,” he whispers and Kiyoomi presses his lips against his again. Can’t stop. Wants to feel Sho again, tightens his grip around his waist. “Omi-san. Omi-san.”

Kiyoomi laughs against the kiss and pulls away, pressing their foreheads together. “Sho,” he whispers and presses their lips again.

The cookies are a little burnt, but that’s okay. Sho kisses Kiyoomi like there’s no tomorrow.

(Kiyoomi thinks there isn’t.)

“You’re acting so weird,” Sho laughs as they get ready for bed, moonlight filtering through Kiyoomi’s barely useful curtains. Sho looks so beautiful, swimming in Kiyoomi’s shirt and moonlight kissing his skin. Kiyoomi lays on his—their?—bed, staring. “You’re acting like I’m gonna die tomorrow.”

 _You probably are_ , Kiyoomi thinks, looking at Sho as he prompts himself up on his elbows. _Maybe today, the gods have just spared me to be with you, to remind me of who I am, of how I’m going crazy. Tomorrow, I’ll wake up to an empty bed, an empty home, and an emptier heart._

Kiyoomi looks at Sho walking towards him with a smile and thinks, _please, let me have this one thing, even for just one day_.

It’s so—easy, so natural, for Sho to sit by Kiyoomi’s thighs and to smile down at him, to lean closer, brush his lips against his. Kiyoomi lets himself remember this; the warmth of Sho’s body; the press of his lips against Sho’s; the soft tremble of Sho’s thighs above his; the gentle pressing of hands on his neck, fluttering and shy and then confident.

“Omi-san,” Sho whispers, soft and shaky in his grasp, legs flexing against his. “Omi-san, Omi-san, _Kiyoomi_.”

Kiyoomi pulls away with a gasp and Sho lets out a soft sound, trying to pull him closer.

 _Kiyoomi, Sho had whispered, soft and breathy and shaky. Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi_.

“Say it again,” Kiyoomi whispers, hands finding Sho’s waist and pulling him closer and closer. “Say my name.”

“Kiyoomi,” Sho murmurs, hands cupping his cheeks and pulling his lips closer to his, hastily pressing them together. “Kiyoomi, Kiyoomi, _Kiyoomi_.”

Kiyoomi takes him all in, the soft shuddering, the gentle touches, the warmth of his weight, the intensity of his eyes, the—

“Kiyoomi,” Sho whispers, easy and slow and Kiyoomi looks back at his messy hair, at his red-bitten lips and flushed cheeks. “No more thinking, okay? Just me. And you.”

Kiyoomi stares at him and feels it then—the slow rise of calmness and serenity that seeps into his throat then to his bones, resting beside his veins. His fingers tighten their hold on Sho’s waist, and he nods, a hand coming up behind Sho’s neck and to lean their foreheads together. “Okay,” he breathes out, lips brushing against his. “You and me.”

Kiyoomi tries to memorize; the sound of Sho’s gasps and whimpers; the feel of his body underneath Kiyoomi’s; his hooded eyes looking into his; and yet, a smile and laugh bubbling out of his lips, still so bright and captivating.

Kiyoomi wonders then, if miracles happen; if the boy holding him as he slowly falls asleep is a gift from the gods.

Kiyoomi falls asleep, body curled and hugged by Sho, wondering if tomorrow, everything will go back to normal, maybe he is going insane.

When Kiyoomi wakes up, it’s to sunlight gracing the side of his face and his first thought is: _I’m back to normal_.

His second thought is: _I am lonely. I am alone_.

His third thought is:

“What’s got you thinking so hard early in the morning, Omi-san?”

Kiyoomi gasps and realizes then, his curled-up body and warm, tan arms hugging him. He looks up from the chest he’s been staring at and makes eye contact with Sho’s sleepy eyes. It registers to him then, the tangle of their legs, the toned arms around him, his curled-up body being hugged by Sho.

Kiyoomi stares at his chest and thinks: _fuck, how touch starved was I to be the little spoon in a relationship with a guy where our height difference is almost 20cm?_

“You’re still here,” he says and then wishes he didn’t. His hand, previously wrapped around Sho’s, comes up to rub at his eyes.

He feels Sho’s legs tighten around his and he looks up at him, hand falling between them. “Why wouldn’t I be?” Sho asks, a smile on his lips even when there’s a furrow on his brows. “I never left, Omi-san.”

Sho pulls him closer, arms tightening around him and Kiyoomi does, too; wraps his arms around Sho and breathes it all in. The tangle of their legs together, their breathing, the sunlight on their skin, Sho’s fingers flexing by his back, up and up and up, resting by his nape. Kiyoomi shivers, he hasn’t been—held like this, touched like this; so tenderly and gently.

“Ah, Omi-san,” Sho whispers and he feels his hands, rough and calloused (from all the volleyball?), wrap-around his cheeks and to lift his head up. “What’s wrong, love?”

Kiyoomi feels a tear slip down his face and he sniffles in surprise, almost reeling back. “Wh—?”

“Why are you crying?” Sho whispers, soft and low, moving closer to him and rubbing a thumb on his cheek. Kiyoomi feels so—so _stupid_ ; crying? Because Sho’s touching him?

(Is touching him in a way he hasn’t been touched in years, gentle and tender, and with all the love flowing out of him. It scares Kiyoomi a little, how easy Sho holds him, touches him.)

(He wants Sho to hold him like this, forever, maybe. But he wants him to hold him, just like this. Just another day of this.)

“Nothing,” Kiyoomi croaks out then and moves closer, “nothing, Sho.”

Then, “I like you holding me.”

Then, Sho’s pulling him even closer, hands tightening their grip against his face and he leans down, presses their foreheads together. He feels Sho gently wipe away at his tears and he closes his eyes, breathes in shakily.

Then, a kiss on his forehead. “Omi-san.”

A kiss on the space between his eyebrows. “I,”

A kiss on his nose. “Will,”

A kiss on his Cupid’s bow. “Never,”

A gentle press of lips against his. “Leave you.”

Kiyoomi opens his eyes and takes it all shakily, the brush of lips against his, and the gentle eyes of Sho. The sunlight behind him is almost like a halo again. “Kiyoomi,” Sho says and kisses him again. “Okay?”

Kiyoomi holds him back, just as tender, just as gentle, just as tight and hopes it’s an answer enough.

There should be a limit on how you love someone.

It should be a little concerning; how easy and fast time flew with Kiyoomi and Sho. How easy Kiyoomi had lost track of time.

It’s been a week, and yet, it felt so slow like it’s only been two days since Kiyoomi met Sho. Since Sho came to his life.

On Wednesday, Sho woke Kiyoomi up with kisses all over his face and pressing him to his chest with a laugh. _You almost killed me_ , Kiyoomi had muttered, looking up at him with flushed cheeks. Sho only grinned back and said, _with love?_

On Thursday, Sho forced Kiyoomi to write, the both of them in the living room and Sho going through the abundance of books Kiyoomi had collected and Kiyoomi, quiet and soft, staring at Sho, writing forgotten.

On Friday, Kiyoomi had woken up at noon, to an empty bed. He’d went outside and saw Sho and Momo, laying on the porch, taking in the warm sunlight. Sho was on his back, eyes closed, and Momo on his chest. When the door opened, he opened his eyes and smiled at Kiyoomi and murmured a soft _afternoon, omi-san_. Kiyoomi had smiled and sat on the chair and wrote in his notebook. When he heard Momo meowing, he looked at them and saw Sho trying to copy Momo stretching, laughing loudly of how he can be a cat to Kiyoomi.

On Saturday, Kiyoomi stumbled upon a documentary on their TV, a documentary about grasshoppers and he’d left it on, eyes staring at the bright screen. Sho had walked in, sleepy and in Kiyoomi’s hoodie, as the narrator was talking of mating rituals. Sho, sleepy and soft, plopped next to him on the couch and put his legs over Kiyoomi and hugged him, sighing softly. Kiyoomi stared at him, breath catching in his throat as the narrator says _eventually, the male succumbs to death_. Kiyoomi looks at Sho on his laps and thinks the same.

On Sunday, Kiyoomi had bought a ton of skincare online last week that arrived that day. Sho had looked at the packages with sparkles on his eyes and asked _omi-san, can we put this on right now? i wanna try them!_ and Kiyoomi said yes, of course. And at 12:34 pm on a Sunday, both Sho and Kiyoomi had sheet masks on and matching cat headbands. Kiyoomi had removed the mask for him, put on moisturizer on Sho’s serious face, and kissed a pout off his lips. Sho had then rubbed his face against Momo’s belly and giggled of softness and moisture.

On Monday, Kiyoomi moved to do his laundry, except this time, the number of clothes has doubled in size. Sho carried the baskets of clothes and talked idly of laundry detergents as they walked towards the back of the house. Kiyoomi fixes the line for where they’ll hang the clothes and then squat next to Sho to stare at the hypnotizing washing machine after. Sho talks about laundry detergents and trying something new. Kiyoomi agrees and stares at Sho, instead of the washing machine.

(Later, when they’re hanging up the clothes, Kiyoomi wants to take a photograph—of something so mundane and simple, Sho hanging up their blankets and the array of colors highlighting him. He had laughed a little too loudly when the blanket flew to his face and it tugged a bit too harshly at Kiyoomi’s heart.) (He did. Had run back so quick to take dozens of photos of Sho laughing amidst the green grass and the colorful clothes.)

(And later again, Sho suggests cleaning all over the whole house and Kiyoomi thinks if Sho really is a gift from the heavens.)

On Tuesday, Kiyoomi laid on the newly cleaned and bleached floor and Sho sat on his thighs and smiled down at him. Kiyoomi hummed a song he heard on the radio and gently ran his fingers up and down Sho’s exposed thigh. When he felt him shiver, he smiled up at him and Sho frowned down at him. “Omi-san,” he’d whispered, soft and sweet, “let’s watch a movie.”

On that same Tuesday, Sho sits on Kiyoomi’s lap as the latter holds onto him tightly as they watch _Evil Dead_. Sho jumps and shrieks in his lap and Kiyoomi holds onto him, peaking through his shoulder. Kiyoomi wonders if Sho is secretly cruel, making themselves watch this movie as they, quite literally, live in a cabin, right beside the woods.

On Wednesday morning, Sho sits on the kitchen counter as he eats oatmeal. Kiyoomi stands beside him, cutting up some oranges.

“Omi-san,” Sho hums and Kiyoomi turns to him, finishing up the oranges. He takes a slice to his lips. “Do you think Momo needs some exercise?”

Kiyoomi snickers out a laugh and he turns to him, walking closer so that he’s in-between Sho’s legs. “What are you planning?”

Sho laughs and shakes his head, putting down his bowl of cereal beside him. He wraps his legs around Kiyoomi’s waist and pulls him closer. “Nothing, nothing,” he grins, “just wanted to know what you think!”

“I think,” Kiyoomi drawls out and picks up a slice of orange, “you should leave Momo alone.”

Sho huffs out a laugh and Kiyoomi turns to him again, silently pressing the orange slice against his lips and Sho raises a brow at him. Kiyoomi fixes him a pointed look and watches as Sho slowly opens his mouth, lips a pretty color, as he leans forward a little and takes the slice inside his mouth. As he chews, his lips brush against Kiyoomi’s fingers gently and Kiyoomi takes in a sharp inhale.

Sho leans even closer and presses a soft kiss against his fingers, looking at him under his eyelashes. Kiyoomi breathes. Lets his fingers wrap around his jaw and to tilt his head towards him. He tilts his head and brushes his lips against Sho’s, the pad of his thumb brushing against the corner of his lips. Sho’s tongue slips out and he brushes it against his thumb.

“Hm,” Sho mumbles, “tastes like orange.”

_Is it weird to admit that I like it when Sho licks away at the orange juice on my fingers?_

_Is it weird to say that I like it, his lips wrapped around my fingers?_

_I would consider it weird, maybe disgusting if it were other people but this is Sho we’re talking about._

_It seems like the universe planned it this way, for me to love him,_

_for me to love everything he does,_

_even if I, myself, don’t seem to, at first._

— written on the back page of Kiyoomi’s journal

Kiyoomi hums and pulls down Sho’s bottom lip with a thumb and leans closer. Sho lets out a soft sound and his legs flex against Kiyoomi’s waist. Ah, how long has Kiyoomi kissed Sho like this, yet it felt like the first time? Sho leans closer and—

“ _Omi-kun?_ ”

Kiyoomi hastily pulls away from Sho and looks behind him in shock. Atsumu’s carrying a paper bag and he’s looking at Sho with wide eyes.

(Kiyoomi wants to…)

Sho’s legs fall by his waist and Kiyoomi lets out a jump at the thump it lets out against the cabinets below. His hand trembles and shakes by his side and it—everything feels too close, and how everything is closing in on him and—

“Atsumu-san,” Sho says, so casually and naturally that Kiyoomi feels like his neck should’ve snapped when he turned to look at him. “Good morning!”

Kiyoomi feels like time stopped for him. He looks at Sho, new to the world, in a way, out of nowhere yet he—he knows Atsumu—and he’s greeting him like they’re friends—are they?—and he looks back at Atsumu and—

“What the fuck?” Atsumu asks, brows raising and looking at Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi feels like being eaten by the floor. “What’s going on here? You ignore me for two weeks and this happens?”

“I,” he breathes out and turns to look at Sho. “Angel, you said about exercising Momo, right? Can you do that?”

“All right,” Sho shrugs and jumps down the counter and looks at Atsumu. He leans closer to Kiyoomi and whispers, “What’s going on with Atsumu-san? I’m only doing this so you two can fix this weird shit that’s happening.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t have the heart to say that Sho’s the reason why Atsumu’s like this—why they’re like this.

Atsumu’s gaze is heavy on Sho as he walks away and calls for Momo. Once the front door closes with a gentle slam, Atsumu walks over to Kiyoomi with a furrow on his brows. “What the fuck?” he says and Kiyoomi stays quiet, leaning against the counter. “Who the _fuck_ is that? Why were you two touching like that? You disappear for two weeks and I come back to some orange guy on your counter?”

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi sighs but Atsumu shakes his head in disbelief.

“What the fuck, Omi-kun? Who the fuck is that? And _why does he know my name_?”

Kiyoomi collapses against the counter with a sigh, hands still shaking at what’s happening. Outside, they can hear Sho’s loud voice and laughter and Kiyoomi looks up at Atsumu. The paper bag of food has dropped to the ground, forgotten.

“He’s…” Kiyoomi trails off and bites his lip. “He’s Sho. He’s someone I wrote.”

Silence answers him and he grips at the counter tightly. A hand touches his forehead and he reels back in shock and disgust.

“Hm,” Atsumu says casually, looking at his hand. “You aren’t hot with sickness, Omi-kun. So, I don’t really know why you aren’t making any fuckin’ sense right now.”

Kiyoomi looks back at him and Atsumu stares back incredulously. “Someone you wrote?” Atsumu repeats and Kiyoomi flinches. _Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up_.

“Are you fuckin’ okay, Omi? What the fuck do you mean? I know you’re cooped up here all by yourself but, Jesus—”

“I’m fucking okay,” Kiyoomi spits out and glares at him and then he relaxes a little and lets out a deep sigh. “It’s just—he’s real. You saw him, right?”

“I sure as hell did,” Atsumu raises his brows at him and puts a hand on his waist. Kiyoomi wants to—he wants to disappear, to go into the woods with Sho and maybe leave everything behind. “Who the hell is he?”

“He’s someone I wrote,” Kiyoomi repeats slowly, looking at Atsumu and hoping he believes him. “I’m not fucking joking. Do I look like I’d joke about that?”

Atsumu looks at him and takes a deep breath. Kiyoomi answers him first with a strong, “Don’t answer that.”

Atsumu purses his lips and clicks his tongue. “How do you expect me to believe that, Omi? What the fuck’s you mean?”

Kiyoomi stays quiet, trying to fix the words and explanation in his head when Atsumu speaks up, “Yo, Omi… he didn’t drug you, did he?”

“No, what the fuck,” Kiyoomi curses out and looks at Atsumu incredulously. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with _me_?” Atsumu asks back, a hand flying up to touch at his chest as he looks back at Kiyoomi in disbelief. “Omi, you’re the one talking fuckin’ nonsense here.”

“It’s not—” Kiyoomi almost shouts and grips at the counter. “It’s not _nonsense_. I’m serious. He’s someone I wrote and I—I know it’s real.”

“How?” Atsumu asks then and Kiyoomi looks at him in confusion.

“How what?”

“How’d ya know?” Atsumu asks him, shrugging and crossing his arms. “What made ya say that?”

Kiyoomi stays quiet and Atsumu sighs, walking over to the table and sitting down on one of the chairs. He leans against the table and looks at Kiyoomi again, “Is this Stockholm Syn—”

“ _No_ , Jesus,” Kiyoomi groans out and bites his lip. He can hear Sho laughing loudly outside and he looks out the window. “Don’t say any of those nonsense. I’m serious.”

“So am I, Omi-kun,” Atsumu glowers, eyes narrowed, “I’m serious. What the fuck do you mean _you wrote him_?”

“These past two years,” Kiyoomi breathes out after minutes of silence and he grips at the counter. “I’ve been—I’ve been writing about someone and it’s insane, I know, I’m going crazy but one day, two weeks ago, he showed up and—I’m serious, Atsumu.”

He looks back at Atsumu, at his inquiring eyes and pensive stance and Kiyoomi doesn’t stop himself when he speaks up again, “And I know I’ll sound even crazier but it’s true and—look, I’m serious, okay?” Kiyoomi looks at Atsumu then and wonders if he should say it. He takes a deep breath and, “It—It was on accident, but I wrote about him, sometime last week and it, it happened, Atsumu. Whatever I write right now, it can happen to him and—”

“It’s fucked up, I know,” Kiyoomi continues on, looking away from Atsumu to look down at the floor. His chest heaves as he tries to explain, to explain this _random boy_ in his house who he’s supposed to be in love with. “And maybe I am going crazy, but I’m serious. He’s real. Sho’s real and he has feelings, too, like _us_. He cried when Momo cried and he gets angry with me sometimes, and sometimes, he has memories of things I didn’t write, and it fucks me up and—”

“ _Kiyoomi_!”

Suddenly, Atsumu’s in front of him and Kiyoomi gasps out when he feels hands on his shoulders. He looks up at Atsumu and it’s then he realizes how heavy his breathing is, how his eyesight is blurring out Atsumu. “Kiyoomi, _breathe_.”

Kiyoomi does. Listens to Atsumu when he tells him to _breathe in, breathe out, listen to my breathing, Omi_. Kiyoomi breathes, listens outside, listens to Sho’s incoherent voice and laughter. He looks down at the floor and tries to control his breathing.

“It affected him,” he heaves out and ignores the feel of Atsumu’s hands on his shoulders. “I wrote—of him crying and being angry at Momo and next thing I know, he’s crying and he’s so, _so angry_. I didn’t mean to write it, Atsumu, I swear, but it was so scary, and I can’t—he’s real, but he’s—”

Atsumu shakes at his shoulders again and Kiyoomi looks at him, chest heaving. “Omi, calm the _fuck down_.”

“I am _calm_ ,” Kiyoomi presses on and focuses on Atsumu’s worried eyes and furrowed brows and sags against the counter, trying to control his breathing, trying to listen to his heartbeat ringing against his ears as Atsumu’s fingers flex against his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I’m just, I’m serious, okay? I’m not making this up.”

“All right, Omi-kun,” Atsumu says and lets go of his shoulders. “I believe ya.”

“You do?” Kiyoomi feels like he’s swimming underwater, or maybe his head is underwater, with the way it’s hazy and blurry and he feels like closing his eyes for eternity. There’s this ringing pain whenever he closes his eyes and it makes him want to—sleep forever.

“Yeah,” Atsumu says and Kiyoomi struggles to look back at him. Atsumu’s looking at him with concern and all Kiyoomi wants to look at is orange hair and bright eyes. “I’ve never seen ya like that before, all stuttering and scared. Made me wish ‘Samu was here to help ya.”

“Oh,” Kiyoomi breathes out and leans against the counter, feels all tension in his body to leave. He feels it then, the dizziness and tiredness that crashes into him like waves, the way his eyes droop down and for his shoulders to sag. God. When was the last time he felt like this?

Silence occupies them for such a long time that Kiyoomi wonders why Sho hasn’t come back yet. Kiyoomi clears his throat and he feels a little lightheaded, the aftermath of everything happening settling into his bones and he just wants to—wants to stay away, wants to hide away from the world and to stay in this haven with Sho and Momo.

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu speaks up and Kiyoomi makes a small sound at the back of his throat. “What’s his name?”

“Huh?” Kiyoomi mumbles out, still reeling from what happened and from what he’s _said_.

“Him,” Atsumu says like it answers Kiyoomi’s question. “Your boy. Sho, whatever. Orange guy.”

 _Oh_.

“Oh,” Kiyoomi says, looking at him then. “Sho.”

Atsumu stares at him, as if waiting for more. Kiyoomi stays quiet and stares back, even if his eyes droop down a little slowly and tiredly.

“Sho?” Atsumu asks slowly. “Sho what?”

“Sho _what_?” Kiyoomi asks back, confusion lacing his voice. “Sho. That’s his name.”

“Omi, are you fuckin’ serious?” Atsumu says so suddenly that it makes Kiyoomi jump a little in shock. “I’m not believin’ you for a second here, Omi. That’s a fucking _nickname_ , Omi, a nickname. What’s Sho’s full name? His fuckin’ government name.”

Kiyoomi lifts his head up and stares at Atsumu, feeling his hands shake again. Sho’s…name? “His name?” he asks again and feels like he’s saying something so sacred and untrue. “It’s Sho.”

“You’re insane, Omi-kun,” Atsumu sighs just as the door opens and Sho’s laughter filters through the air. They both wait for Sho to come inside the kitchen, holding a rather dirty Momo in his arms. Kiyoomi notes the leaves in his hair and his disheveled clothes and thinks, _he still looks so beautiful_.

Sho looks at them both with a wide smile and says, “Are you two done?”

“Sho,” Atsumu says, his voice clear and with intent that Kiyoomi turns to him sharply. _What the fuck are you gonna say?_

Sho tilts his head at him and smiles even more, walking closer to them while scratching at Momo’s head. “Yes, Atsumu-san? Are you staying for lunch?”

“Lunch?” Atsumu blinks rapidly then shakes his head. “No, no, I just have a question.”

Kiyoomi switches his gaze between Atsumu and Sho and feels frozen, feels like he _should_ speak up, stop Atsumu from saying dumb shit. He feels himself stand up a little straighter just when Atsumu says, “Sho, what’s your full name?”

Silence pierces through the kitchen as Sho freezes in rubbing Momo’s head and he tilts his head in confusion. Kiyoomi feels like he’s underwater all over again, hard to breathe and think, his thoughts clouded by thoughts that come and go all too fast.

Atsumu’s laugh breaks through it all and he shrugs, an easy smile on his lips. “C’mon, Sho! I have a joke with it!”

Then, like some spell, confusion leaves Sho’s face and the natural and wide smile comes back to his lips. “Oh!” he laughs and makes Momo jump a little in his arms. “You should’ve said so, Atsumu-san!” and then, “Hinata Shouyou.”

It doesn’t feel groundbreaking, it _shouldn’t_ be groundbreaking, but—Kiyoomi still feels his heart jump out of his throat as he lets the words swim in his mind. He feels it, the shaking of his hands, the warm yet cool feel of the counter by his back as he almost falls, the thundering and ringing in his mind.

 _Hinata Shouyou. Hinata Shouyou. Hinata Shouyou. Hinata Shouyou_.

“Oh,” Atsumu’s voice is a little hazy, a little blurry, somewhere so far away yet still ringing in Kiyoomi’s ears. “Hinata Shouyou.”

(Kiyoomi wants to keep Sho all to himself.)

* * *

Kiyoomi accompanies Atsumu outside, right after lunch, right after Sho has—Shouyou has forced Atsumu to eat lunch with them. It scared Kiyoomi a little, how easy and free Shouyou looked, how his laughter blended in with Atsumu’s, how he—how he belongs.

“Shouyou-kun’s a keeper for ya, Omi,” Atsumu says after a moment of silence and Kiyoomi looks up to see him at the ends of the porch. He’s looking at Kiyoomi carefully, eyes calculated. “I’m serious.”

Kiyoomi purses his lips and nods, “Yeah.”

“And you like him?” Atsumu asks and Kiyoomi nods again.

“How long has he been here again?”

“Two weeks,” Kiyoomi answers before he narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“You like him?” Atsumu asks again and Kiyoomi frowns.

“If you’re just gonna fucking make fun of me, then don’t bother.”

“I’m not,” Atsumu says seriously and levels Kiyoomi with a look. “Do you like Shouyou-kun?”

Kiyoomi stays quiet and looks at Atsumu, wonders if this is some elaborate joke, maybe there’s a punchline somewhere. “I,” he trails off and freezes a little when he hears laughter from inside. His chest opens for a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“All right,” Atsumu says and that’s that. Kiyoomi stares at him and waits for him to say something, _anything_.

“That’s it?”

“Hm?” Atsumu hums and nods. “Yeah. If you like him, then go for it, Omi. He literally lives there already.”

Kiyoomi stays quiet yet a small smile teases at his lips. Silence mixes in with the rustling of the forest around them and Kiyoomi looks up from the porch floor and to Atsumu, looking deep in thought.

“Ah, Omi,” Atsumu trails off, eyebrows furrowing as he stares at the ground. “About what you said earlier.”

“What?”

“You said something about your writing and Shouyou-kun,” Atsumu recalls and looks at him, eyes focused and dark. “You said he does what you write.”

Kiyoomi stands up a little straighter from where he’s leaning against the front door and walks closer. “What are you saying?”

“What I’m sayin’,” Atsumu shrugs, “is if you’re serious about Shouyou-kun, you better not write about him again.”

Kiyoomi furrows his brows and puffs his cheeks. “I’m not gonna do that. Or whatever you’re thinking of, creep.”

“Woah!” Atsumu lets out a sudden laugh, hands raising by his head. “I’m not sayin’ anything, Omi-kun! I just want ya to be serious of Shouyou-kun.”

“I am.” Kiyoomi insists, narrowing his eyes at Atsumu. “I’m not gonna write about him anymore.”

“Good,” Atsumu shrugs, like it’s nothing. “’Cause Shouyou-kun’s a real person now, Omi. He’s not one of your characters anymore.”

Kiyoomi stays quiet, biting the inside of his cheek. “I know,” he says after a while and glares at Atsumu. “I know that, Atsumu.”

 _I know what the consequences are, I know what I’m getting into_ , he wants to say, wants to walks closer and to grip at Atsumu’s shirt. _I know you think I’m gonna go insane, but I know what I’m doing._

Kiyoomi stays quiet and glares at Atsumu instead. Atsumu stares back until he closes his eyes with a sigh, shoulders shrugging.

“I believe ya, Omi-kun, don’t worry,” Atsumu grins at him and gives him a thumbs up. He makes a move to leave when Kiyoomi speaks up, “Atsumu.”

“Hm?”

“Can you,” he trails off and bites at the inside of his cheek. “Can you keep this a secret for now? Please.”

Atsumu tilts his head and hums. “Sure, Omi-kun. It’s not my story to tell anyways.”

Then, he grins at him, winking. “Gonna leave, Omi! Thanks for lunch! Ya better reply to our texts from now on!”

Kiyoomi watches as Atsumu gives him a small wave before walking away. He stares at his retreating back and wonders.

When Kiyoomi walks back inside their home, he follows the humming from the kitchen and isn’t surprised to see Shouyou by the sink with Momo laying on his feet. Kiyoomi stays there for a while, staring at Shouyou (Sho?) and listens to his humming, lets himself stare and—just stare.

“Let me do it,” Kiyoomi finds himself saying, walking closer to Shouyou and taking away the plate from his hands. “Let me clean these for you. You already cooked earlier, right?”

A lie. Kiyoomi did. Shouyou huffs and sticks out his tongue at him before taking back the plate from his hands. “Not fair, Omi-san!” he says, rinsing out soap. “You cooked earlier! And you know I like washing dishes.”

Kiyoomi knows. Had even written it.

_I used to feel guilty, then. Even before we moved in together, or_

_when we were just_ _on the_

_‘just-friends-but-there’s-something’ phase._

_I never thought I’d use that, but with Sho, I find something new._

_Like the way he loves washing the dishes, always._

_I used to feel so guilty, I always_

_wanted to ask him,_ Why do you always wash the dishes? Let me do it for once.

_But he says it’s because it calms him down, it makes him think,_

_gives him some little time for himself._

_I’d never want to take that away from him._

_So, I watch, beside him, behind him, and always try to convince him to_

_let me wash the dishes for once._

_I wonder when that day will come._

— Sakusa Kiyoomi, _Excerpts from a novel I’d never publish_

“All right, all right,” he smiles and leans against the counter, staring at him. He stares at Shouyou’s small smile, flushed cheeks and soft humming. “Atsumu says thank you for lunch.”

“Hm,” Shouyou says, beginning to move to wash the glasses. “But I didn’t cook, Omi-san.”

Kiyoomi lets out a laugh. “I know,” he says and smiles even more when Shouyou looks back at him. “But still, he says thank you.”

“Did he thank _you_?” Shouyou asks back, returning to the sink and humming again.

“Don’t worry,” Kiyoomi assures him, a soft smile playing on his lips. “He did, all right?”

“All right, all right,” Shouyou lets out a soft chuckle before turning to him again, bright eyes captivating. “Omi-san, let’s go to the forest today!”

“Sure, Sho.” _Anything for you_.

Kiyoomi looks at Shouyou and knows, that he’ll want to do everything with him.

Shouyou insists that you don’t have to wear a face mask when going to the forest. Kiyoomi still persists. Kiyoomi wins, only because _omi-san is too cute, so caring, isn’t he?_

“Stop talking to Momo about this,” Kiyoomi mumbles, voice already so muffled underneath his mask. His fingers gently brush against Shouyou’s ears as he puts the face mask for him. “Leave the cat out of this.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t see it but he knows Shouyou pouts at him, looking up at him with furrowed brows and wide eyes. Kiyoomi lets out a small huff of laughter and proceeds to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Shouyou’s ear. “Your hair’s getting long.”

He watches as Shouyou moves his eyes and eyebrows animatedly and he lets out a huff before saying, “You can speak, you know.”

“I got lazy!” Shouyou says then grabs hold of Kiyoomi’s hand, smiling up at him. “And I’m growing my hair this time! What do you think, Omi-san?”

“I think,” Kiyoomi hums and smiles down at him. “You’d look good with whatever.”

Shouyou groans and Kiyoomi lets out a huff when he feels a push from his side. “Ah, why are you complaining?” he turns to him and raises his brows. “Do you not like compliments?”

“Omi-san, you’re mean,” Shouyou mumbles and Kiyoomi hums, leaning down a little so they’re eye-to-eye. “See? Mean.”

“Not mean,” Kiyoomi mumbles and brushes their noses together. He feels Shouyou’s hand tighten their hold against his and he smiles underneath the mask. “Never mean to you.”

Shouyou lets out a shaky exhale and Kiyoomi looks at his eyes, wonders if he’ll be able to find something. Shouyou looks back at him and his eyes squint, almost like he’s smiling. “Omi-san,” he says sweetly. “Kiyoomi, can you kiss me?”

Kiyoomi wants to taste the sweetness in Shouyou’s mouth, to just stay here inside their safe home and taste Shouyou and every bit of his sweetness. And so, Kiyoomi stays there, looking at Shouyou’s eyes and leans a little closer. “All right,” he mumbles because he can’t resist Shouyou. He thinks he never will.

Kiyoomi leans in and Shouyou tilts his head a little higher until their lips press, even if there’s two layers of a mask between them. Even when the mask scratches lightly at Kiyoomi’s lips. When he pulls away, he opens his eyes just in time to see Shouyou with his still closed.

Shouyou opens his eyes and Kiyoomi feels his breathe hitch in his throat at the soft flush that he can still see, even with the mask covering Shouyou’s cheeks. “Ah, Omi-san,” Shouyou lets out a soft laugh and the mask drips down to his nose a little. “I thought you were gonna be all cool and— _wah!_ —pull down my mask and, and—”

“Ah, shut up,” Kiyoomi lets out a laugh and stands up straighter, squeezing Shouyou’s hand. “Let’s just go to the forest.”

“Ah, but, Omi-san! You’re supposed to be all bam and cool!”

In the two years Kiyoomi has lived here, he has never been to the forest.

This, is something he doesn’t voice out to Shouyou.

(Kiyoomi is sure: how he’s written of forest dates with Sho. In his book, or notes, or journal, _whatever_ , he’s comfortable and at peace with the forest. There aren’t ominous dreams or strange owls hooting in his place with Sho. Instead, there’s bright sunlight and dewdrops on their skin. It’s eating breakfast by the front of the forest and waiting for the sun to come up. It’s soft laughter and even softer voices and gentle touches. In Kiyoomi’s novel, he’s happy.)

But still, he holds his hand and remembers how the sun feels against their skin, the crackling of the moss and dirt underneath their shoes, the gentle breeze of the wind; remembers this all and locks it away in a small place in his mind.

Beside him, in a thin yet oversized shirt and plain sweatpants, stands Shouyou, hands clasped tightly against his and looking around the forest. Kiyoomi tries to stay close to him, looking down at the ground and thanking the heavens it didn’t rain, lest their shoes could’ve been a little too muddy.

Shouyou stops walking and he looks at him in question, only to see Shouyou with his head leaned back, his eyes closed as the sunlight graces his face. Kiyoomi stares at him and knows.

_Shouyou. Shouyou. Soar. Fly. Sunlight. That’s you._

_You’re my sunlight._

“Omi-san,” Shouyou smiles, still with his head leaned back. His mask is almost down his nose. “I can feel your stare.”

“You look pretty,” Kiyoomi says instead, the words familiar yet so natural to leave his lips. God, when was Kiyoomi this—this open? This _cheesy_?

“Hm,” Shouyou hums and turns to look at him, sunlight highlighting his pretty eyes like honey. Kiyoomi has this sudden thought, of Shouyou and belonging with the trees and the forest and the sunlight. “Kiyoomi, you’re a bit cheesy.”

Kiyoomi moves a little closer and fixes Shouyou’s mask up higher, letting his hand cup Shouyou’s cheeks after. Everywhere around them, birds chirp and Shouyou’s soft laugh echoes alongside them. “Ah, I feel like I’m in a movie,” Shouyou laughs and looks away from Kiyoomi to stare back at the sun filtering through the trees, eyes squinting. “Omi-san, I think our love is made for movie screens.”

Kiyoomi stares at him then narrows his eyes a little. “I think you just plagiarized that.”

Shouyou lets out a laugh that mixes in with the gentle breeze and the chirping of the birds and he—glistens, shines, underneath the sunlight. Maybe Shouyou is the sunlight. “Well,” his eyes squint like how they do when he smiles, “I’m not a poet like you, Omi-san!”

Kiyoomi ruffles Shouyou’s hair and pulls his head closer to him, pressing a soft kiss on his forehead. Shouyou squeezes his hand and it feels like a kiss enough.

They continue to walk further into the forest, Shouyou letting go of his hand to squat down by some trees or plants to look at some beetles with Kiyoomi standing by at a fair distance. As they walk, as Shouyou pauses and squats to inspect, as Kiyoomi looks around, he wonders of the existence of a god. As Kiyoomi looks around yet his gaze eventually settles on Shouyou, sweaty yet soft underneath the sunlight, amidst the trees, he wonders of the existence of a god and if it resides in this forest.

Huh. Kiyoomi wonders if the forest is a god and he just stumbled upon it by coincidence, or by destiny, or by unluckiness.

A finger presses against his forehead and he looks away from his shoes and the dirt to look up at Shouyou. His brows unfurrow and he stares at him. “What’s got you thinking so hard?”

 _You_ , he wants to say. _You and your existence, your reason for being. The forest, of its generosity and power. Hinata Shouyou, just who are you, and did you come from the forest?_

“You,” Kiyoomi says instead and brings Shouyou’s hand to his mask-covered mouth. His hands wrap around Shouyou’s wrist so perfectly, he never wants to let go. He presses a soft kiss against his hand. “I think you belong in this forest.”

“Really?” Shouyou asks and his fingers play with the ends of Kiyoomi’s mask. Kiyoomi wonders when he’d been in too deep in this, to the point where he’s willing to venture deep into the forest and stay there with some boy.

(Not just some boy. Hinata Shouyou. Or maybe he is, just some boy.)

“Hm,” Shouyou hums again. He does that a lot. “If I belong in this forest, then you belong here too!” Once, when Kiyoomi was young and stupid, at seventeen-years-old, he’d read a paragraph of how eyes were windows to the soul and he’d tried to recreate it in his words, yet he couldn’t. He couldn’t explain it in his own words then, how staring at someone’s eyes would make them speak to you in a way; how someone’s eyes and how they’d look at you would be more than enough, would be enough than words.

Here, Shouyou looks at him and his eyes are saying enough. “Because you belong with me, right, Omi-san?”

Somewhere, the trees move a little for them. Somewhere, birds look at them and wonder how two boys managed to go this deep into the forest. Somewhere, the forest embraces two boys, in love, and gives them momentary peace.

It happens a little too quickly, Kiyoomi pulling down his mask and his other hand pulling down Shouyou’s, tilting his head so that their lips meet each other halfway. Kiyoomi marvels in the soft, surprised sound Shouyou makes before his hand grips at the front of Kiyoomi’s shirt. When Kiyoomi pulls away, Shouyou’s teeth dig a little into his bottom lip, pulling before letting it go. Kiyoomi stares at him blankly.

Shouyou grins at him, the green of the trees complimenting him and sweat illuminating his skin. “Come on, Omi-san! The forest awaits us!”

When they’re deep into the forest, the trees circling them and the sunlight permanently scented on their skin, Shouyou turns to him, glowing and beautiful. “Omi-san,” he whispers, like it’s a secret. Kiyoomi stops fiddling with his polaroid and looks up at him.

“Hm?”

“Do you know,” Shouyou whispers again, “the stories of this forest?”

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes at him. “What do you mean?”

Shouyou laughs, “Don’t look so suspicious! I’m just telling a story!”

“All right, then,” Kiyoomi keeps a polaroid of Shouyou, eyes closed, and face turned toward the sunlight, the green of the trees around him complimenting him beautifully, inside his bag. “What’s the story?”

“In this place, this deep into the forest,” Shouyou tells, eyes animated and wide as he turns to Kiyoomi. “One has to make out with their lover.”

Kiyoomi stays quiet. The birds chirp for them.

“You are so stupid.”

“What!” Shouyou laughs, moving closer to him and pushing him lightly. “It’s true!”

“And where did you get that from?” Kiyoomi asks him, raising a brow at him as he leans down a little.

“Nowhere!” Shouyou laughs. “It’s an old wives’ tale!”

“Of course,” Kiyoomi sighs, beginning to take down his mask. “Did those lady vendors tell you this?”

“Omi-san,” Shouyou gasps, “why are you taking off your mask?”

Kiyoomi groans at Shouyou’s scandalous tone. “What?”

“Omi-san,” Shouyou giggles and moves away when Kiyoomi’s hand moves to take off his mask. “You act so mean but you wanna kiss me!”

“You’re the one who told me about it!”

Shouyou lets his mask rest by his chin and Kiyoomi takes in a deep breath. Shouyou grins at him and tilts his head.

 _You are sunlight itself, aren’t you?_ Kiyoomi wants to say. _You shine so bright; you almost rival the sun_.

“You can’t resist me, Omi-san,” Shouyou hums and grins even brighter when Kiyoomi wraps an arm his waist and pulls him closer. The leaves underneath them crinkle and Shouyou bumps onto Kiyoomi’s chest with an _oomph_.

“Hm,” Kiyoomi hums and lets a slender finger lift up Shouyou’s chin. “Maybe so.”

“Omi-san,” Shouyou whispers when their lips are breaths away from each other. “I lied. The making out thing isn’t real.”

Kiyoomi stares at him and leans his head back in laughter. He can hear Shouyou whine and huff from in front of him and he turns to him, hugging him close and hiding his face by Shouyou’s shoulder. “Oh god,” he laughs out, “it’s okay, Sho. I’ll still kiss you.”

“Ah, Omi-san!” Kiyoomi feels a light punch on his chest. “You’re so mean! I’m trying to be honest here!”

“All right, all right, sorry,” Kiyoomi smiles at him and brushes their noses together. “Forgive me?”

Shouyou looks up at him with a pout. “Hm,” he juts out his bottom lip at him. “No.”

Kiyoomi hums and leans closer to him, hand tightening their hold on Shouyou’s jaw. “Now, who’s being mean?”

Shouyou scrunches his nose and leans a little closer, trying to make their lips touch. The corner of Kiyoomi’s mouth turned up as he stood a little straighter, moving away from him a little. Shouyou frowns and punches him on the chest again.

“Meanie!”

Kiyoomi leans closer and presses his lips against Shouyou’s. The soft sound Shouyou makes, he lets it stay in his mind as Shouyou leans up and closer, gripping onto his shirt again. Shouyou opens his mouth a little and Kiyoomi hums when he feels a tongue lick against his bottom lip.

When they kiss, Kiyoomi makes Shouyou remember; the love he has, the warmth Shouyou makes him feel, makes him feel Kiyoomi everywhere, hands touching and tightening on every part of his body.

When they part, with eyes a little hazy and droopy, Shouyou kisses him again. And again. And again. And again.

Kiyoomi doesn’t know how long they were in the forest after, aimlessly walking around and looking at different plants and beetles, but it’s nearing sundown when they leave the forest, Shouyou pulling Kiyoomi and talking of knowing the way. He does, and Kiyoomi lets himself be pulled, staring at Shouyou’s broad back and bright hair.

When they stumble out of the forest, leaves on their clothes and hair, the sky is a violent purple mixing in with bright yellows and pinks and reds. It reminds Kiyoomi of an apocalyptic sky that his hands shake a little, head turning a little to look back at the sky as Shouyou pulls at him. His hands shake, by his side, maybe in Shouyou’s grip, as he looks at the sky and wonders, wants to write.

He stays quiet, staring at Shouyou and his brightness, his skin illuminated by the purple and pink sky, his bright eyes and a ghost of a smile on his lips. Shouyou talks of dinner and Momo and of wine. Kiyoomi looks at him and wonders if this is what Kiyoomi in the novel felt like years ago, just about to fall in love with Shouyou; new, raw, in love.

Kiyoomi looks at him and wonders. When did familiarity happen in this routine? When did familiarity and easiness crawl itself into Kiyoomi’s routine, making a home inside of him in just two weeks?

_You and your brightness,_

_you and your happiness,_

_you._

_Just you and your whole being,_

_you are my reason to be._

— written on the last pages of Kiyoomi’s journal

Soon, days pass, and then weeks and then months and soon enough, Kiyoomi is waking up to Shouyou every day and there’s laughter and there’s—there’s _love_. Shouyou had learned to make tiny clothes for Momo (a bright yellow sweater, then a bright red shirt, black and white paw socks). Has learned to convince Kiyoomi to buy tiny house plants, naming them all ridiculous names that sound a little too familiar.

(It had felt like a punch, when Shouyou had turned to him in the dead of winter, looking at their numerous cacti and house plants and naming them. _omi-san, what about the name haji? this cactus looks like a haji! ah, omi-san, this house plant looks like a kei, no?_

Kiyoomi had never felt such coldness and warmth in winter.)

Shouyou had learned to weave himself inside Kiyoomi’s tiny and lonely life, had weaved himself in, comfortably and with no complaint. Shouyou had learned to love Kiyoomi, all the bad and good parts, when the winter turns a bit colder and the words of the past come rushing into him, the anxiousness, the insecurity, the insecurity that came after a botched success. Shouyou had learned to love Kiyoomi, even with his harsh words and even harsher glares, the ghosts of the past and the present crawling in his bones. Shouyou had been there through it all, hushing and whispering, quiet and understanding. Kiyoomi had looked at him and knew.

And with the withering of summer comes autumn and then winter and soon enough, Kiyoomi finds himself celebrating Christmas and the fucking _New Year_ with Hinata Shouyou. When 2019 comes, Shouyou kisses Kiyoomi with a laugh.

Soon enough, Kiyoomi had long stopped wondering. He’d long since accepted it, the familiarity and the warmth.

He wonders if things could stay this way forever.

When winter is close to saying goodbye, it happens. Small and probably insignificant.

Kiyoomi walk inside the kitchen and see Shouyou cutting up green onions.

“Omi-san,” he turns to him before going back to the board. “Is udon all right for tonight?”

“Of course,” Kiyoomi says then thinks. “On one condition.”

“Hm?” Shouyou hums before he pauses and turns to him in confusion. “Condition?”

“Yes,” Kiyoomi smiles at him teasingly. “I do the dishes later.”

Silence answers him and then, Shouyou’s familiar laugh, head leaned back. “Ah, Omi-san!” he laughs, shaking his head as he turns back to the onions. “You’re so weird! Sure, you can wash the dishes.”

Making dinner goes like this: it’s quiet yet soft laughter bubbling out of them as they make stories about the forest, about Momo, about the kind old lady where they bought udon from. It’s the laughter mingling in with the sound of the knife touching the cutting board, mixing in with various vegetables. It’s moving around each other easily, quietly, tenderly. A hand on the waist. A gentle touch on the back as he passes through. A soft tap on the wrist, a softer _can you pass me the salt?_ A gentle _can you cut these up for me?_ A murmured _I’ll start cooking, don’t worry_.

When Shouyou’s about to add the udon, he lifts a spoon up to his lips and gently blows. Kiyoomi watches and waits and then, Shouyou turns to him and presents the spoon. Kiyoomi looks at him and bends down a little, lips touching spoon and takes a sip. When he looks back at Shouyou, at his inquiring eyes and raised brows, he nods a bit too excitedly. “Tastes good,” he says a little too hurriedly and excitedly and Shouyou’s face turns into brightness and happiness.

Dinner goes like this: Kiyoomi tells a story, of the sky and of apocalypses. Shouyou sits beside him, elbow to elbow, prettily and quietly, eyes never leaving Kiyoomi’s unless he’s about to take a sip or a bite. Kiyoomi thinks this is the longest dinner they’ve had, food almost forgotten by Kiyoomi’s story and Shouyou’s curiosity and questions. Shouyou gives some of his chicken to Momo, smiling sheepishly at Kiyoomi who frowns jokingly at him.

“Don’t make him eat on the floor, you heathen,” he mumbles, moving to get a plate and putting some leftovers. “You keep eating our food and then ignore the cat food. What’s wrong with you?”

“Stop it,” Shouyou whines from the table. “Leave him alone!”

Kiyoomi turns back to collect their bowls and he looks back at Shouyou and thinks briefly, quietly, a thought that’s been resurfacing, _I have never loved anyone like I love you_.

When Kiyoomi’s barely finished washing the dishes, he feels an arm wrap around his waist and he turns to his side, at Shouyou’s smile. “Omi-san,” he says a little too sweetly. “Wine?”

Kiyoomi stares at him weirdly before laughing. “You don’t have to ask me, Sho,” he smiles at him and thinks, then doesn’t. He leans down and presses a soft kiss on his temple. “I don’t think we have wine glasses, though.”

“Of course, we don’t,” Shouyou says in a tone that sounds like they’ve had this conversation before. “You refuse to buy ones, Omi-san. And I honestly think you like drinking wine from these tiny little mugs!”

Kiyoomi turns to him just in time to see Shouyou take out some of their mugs, ones they bought from random vendors in town, and some gifted by Kiyoomi’s friends. Shouyou tells him to hurry up so Kiyoomi does. He’s quick to dry off his hands and to follow Shouyou into the living room, soft American music playing quietly in the background.

Shouyou’s already pouring wine in the mugs, singing along to the song under his breath. He’s sitting by the floor, mugs supported by the coffee table. Kiyoomi has a split-second decision on where he’ll sit but he resorts to the couch, close to Shouyou. He hands him a mug and leans his head against Kiyoomi’s knees. Shouyou’s humming and soft singing occupy the silence. His phone buzzes from somewhere and he takes it from Shouyou’s hands.

(Kiyoomi’s doing better, he’s trying, all right.)

**atsumu miya**

> Omi omi

> Party at mine and Shinsuke’s place on Friday ༼♥ل͜♥༽(⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄)⁄

> Plz come and bring shouyou-kun everyone wants to meet him and everyone misses u

> It’s for ‘samu’s new branch!!! I planned it and don’t tell him ok it’s a surprise

> Please come i’m begging

> Bring shouyou

> Omi

> Bring shouyou

> Plz omi

> Shouyou

> Shouyou

> Jesus fuck okay we’re going

“Atsumu invited us to a party,” Kiyoomi drawls out and Shouyou turns his head to look at him, “it’s this Friday.”

Shouyou hums and takes a slow sip. “What’s the verdict, Omi-san?”

Kiyoomi lets go of his phone and cups his mug with both hands. “If you wanna go,” he says and smiles at Shouyou. “We can go.”

“Do you want to?” Another sip. Pretty, pink lips.

Kiyoomi looks at Shouyou for a moment and thinks, _I wanna do everything with you_.

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi answers and takes a sip. “I wanna go.”

Shouyou grins and takes a sip, cheeks coloring. “So, we’re going then, Omi-san?”

Kiyoomi holds his mug with one hand and lets his finger gently caress Shouyou’s warming cheek. He smiles and nods, “Yeah, we’re going, Sho.”

Shouyou smiles at him, bright and beautiful and turns back to the television. His head leans against Kiyoomi’s knee and he sings softly. Kiyoomi lets his fingers play and ruffle with the ends of his hair.

A mug turns into two, and then three, and then four until Kiyoomi hasn’t kept track and then—Shouyou’s eyes are a little droopy and there’s a permanent smile on his lips as he props an elbow on Kiyoomi’s knees. “Omi-san,” he murmurs, blinking slowly. “Let’s dance.”

Kiyoomi huffs out a laugh and leans forward to put their mugs on the coffee table. “Dance?” he asks and Shouyou nods. “To what?”

Shouyou stares at him in confusion before shrugging and using Kiyoomi’s knees to help him stand up, “To what?” he repeats and looks at him in confusion. “Omi-san! Everything’s music!”

Kiyoomi blinks. He can’t really argue with that.

He lets himself be pulled by Shouyou and there he stands, a little awkward, a little tipsy, a little limby, in front of Shouyou. There was a lie, there’s music, soft and low, background music to their quiet dancing. It’s in English, something they stumbled upon earlier, maybe by the second mug.

Kiyoomi stands there for a moment, watches as Shouyou smiles and closes his eyes, slowly swaying his body along to the beat. When Shouyou opens his eyes and sees him standing still, he frowns. “Omi-san!” he says in an offended tone. “You aren’t even dancing!”

Kiyoomi pouts at him, even if he knows he’ll deny it tomorrow. “I don’t wanna,” he stares at Shouyou, as if challenging him. Shouyou huffs and turns to the coffee table and takes the remote, increasing the volume of the song. Kiyoomi grins.

The chorus comes in and it’s a sweet _so, kiss me_ and Shouyou raises his brows at him. Kiyoomi watches as Shouyou closes his eyes again with a grin, hands coming up beside his head as he jumps around, feeling the beat. Kiyoomi grins and feels the flood of love in his chest and he thinks, _fuck it_.

Kiyoomi jumps around, too, hands slowly rising and looks at Shouyou when he hears him laugh. “See!” he laughs, jumping closer to him. “You’re dancing!”

They meet each other halfway through, even if it’s a short distance between them, hands finding each other and bodies slowly swaying.

“See, Omi-san,” Shouyou hums, smiling up at him. “You’re dancing!”

“This isn’t dancing,” Kiyoomi laughs, body softly swaying alongside Shouyou’s. “I was just jumping.”

He wants to blame it on the wine, maybe, but he knows it’s all just this: he wants to dance Shouyou. That’s all there is to it.

Slowly, energy courses through them and Shouyou makes Kiyoomi twirl, even if he has to bend down and the other has to lean on his tiptoes. They always meet each other halfway through.

Kiyoomi’s soft laughter mixes in with Shouyou’s bubbling one, the former twirling and spinning under Shouyou’s arm. The music changes and changes, from soft to fast to upbeat to soft again, yet they move around each other, familiar and fast and in love.

Kiyoomi twirls Shouyou then, grinning at the way he laughs loudly, head turned back. Shouyou falls back onto Kiyoomi’s chest with a laugh. “I’m dizzy!”

“I can see,” Kiyoomi breathes out with a laugh, hugging him close then. They calm down then, back to slow swaying bodies, Shouyou hiding his face in Kiyoomi’s embrace and Kiyoomi does too, bending down and hides his face in Shouyou’s shoulder.

Shouyou spins them again and Kiyoomi laughs a little loudly, lets himself enjoy the moment, the way he’s feeling, the way Shouyou feels in his arms. When Shouyou moves to spin them again, Kiyoomi stands still and grins at the groan Shouyou makes against his shirt.

“Killjoy Omi-san!” Shouyou whines then gasps. “Killjoy Kiyoomi! K.K.!”

Shouyou looks up at him and his hands are quick to cup Kiyoomi’s cheeks, on tiptoes as he presses a quick yet deep kiss. When he pulls away, Kiyoomi follows him, eyes still closed. He feels a thump on his chest. “Killjoy Kiyoomi,” Shouyou mumbles and Kiyoomi lets out a soft laugh.

“Okay, okay, that’s too much,” Kiyoomi shakes his head and walks over to the couch, almost carrying Shouyou. He can feel himself get a little sweaty, the heat of dancing slowly getting to him as he huffs and sits down a little roughly on the couch. Shouyou huffs and moves around a little until he’s sitting comfortably on Kiyoomi’s lap, cheeks a pretty pink color, and a smile on his lips.

“Omi-san,” Shouyou whispers, a little too sweetly, a little too blurry. His weight on Kiyoomi’s lap is familiar yet still so new. He moves closer and closer, arms looping around Kiyoomi’s neck. “Kiyoomi.”

“Hm,” Kiyoomi hums, hands tightening their grip around Shouyou’s waist. “Sho. Sho. Shouyou.”

Shouyou grins and leans closer, humming softly and pressing a kiss on the side of Kiyoomi’s mouth. “Kiyoomi,” he says again, honey-like. Sweetly. Syrupy. “I thought of something.”

Kiyoomi hums and proceeds to hug him, resting his chin on his shoulder. “Listening.”

“I think we should have breakfast tomorrow,” Shouyou pulls away and smiles at him, flushed cheeks and all. “It’s getting hotter, ‘no? And no snow! We should have breakfast in the forest or by the forest, you know? Hm, and we could watch the sunset.”

Kiyoomi stares at him and wants to kiss him. He does, a little soft peck on his lips. Shouyou grins and then he whispers, soft and low and quiet, droopy yet still so bright, “I wanna watch the sunset with you, Kiyoomi.”

Kiyoomi lets it simmer and boil, then to rest. He holds Shouyou close to him, the adrenaline from earlier leaving, the smell of wine lingering in their mouths, and the warmth of Shouyou’s cheeks touching against his. _Nobody loves me like you_.

Shouyou looks beautiful, sweaty and flushed beneath Kiyoomi. Maybe it’s the fact that Kiyoomi left the lights open, yet still dimmed, a flesh orange illuminating their skins. Maybe it’s the fact Kiyoomi has seen this almost a dozen times, sweaty and out of breath Shouyou, yet it still feels like the first time. Maybe it’s—maybe there aren’t any reasons to reason with. Maybe it’s just—them. Just Shouyou. Just Kiyoomi.

“Kiyoomi,” Shouyou mewls, a little syrupy-sweet because he’d always been sweet. Kiyoomi leans closer and brings their hips together, grinning at the soft sound Shouyou makes, eyes a little tearful, eyes a little begging.

“Hm,” Kiyoomi hums, hands finding Shouyou’s and pressing it to the bed. “You sound so sweet.”

“Taste sweet, too,” Shouyou huffs, breathing heavy and he looks at Kiyoomi with a pout, lips bitten red and wet with spit. “Kiyoomi, please?”

Kiyoomi gives him a kiss, a little push, then another, and another, and another. Kiyoomi kisses him until Shouyou’s reduced to a teary-eyed wreck, hair ruffled to a tease, and lips slicked with spit. He looks up at Kiyoomi, tears slipping down his cheeks prettily and Kiyoomi kisses them away softly.

“Omi, Kiyoomi,” he gasps and shudders, eyes squeezing shut as he throws his head back, neck littered with kisses and bruises. “Say my name, pretty please?”

Kiyoomi lets out a teasing smile and noses the spot where jaw meets neck, warm breath ghosting along the spot that it makes Shouyou choke. “Sho,” he whispers, pushing closer. “Sho, Sho, _Shouyou_.”

“I love you,” Shouyou gasps out then, sweet and low, sweet and honey. Hm.

Kiyoomi squeezes their hands together and presses his forehead against his. “I love you.”

When Kiyoomi wakes up, it’s to kisses peppering his face. He opens his eyes softly and smiles, moves closer to the embrace Shouyou’s giving him.

“Morning,” he mumbles. A kiss on the cheek.

“Morning, Omi-san,” Shouyou whispers, voice raw yet Kiyoomi feels the smile on his lips when it touches his skin. A kiss on the temple. “Breakfast?”

Kiyoomi smiles and moves closer, relishes in the embrace Shouyou gives him, relishes at the moment, and hopes that he can stay here forever.

Shouyou is a little bit wrong. There’s still snow, although it’s mostly melted, and it crackles beneath their shoes. Shouyou’s in a thick sweater and one of Kiyoomi’s jackets. Kiyoomi’s in a thin sweater and a coat. He breathes out a little, watches his breath appear, and then disappear and he looks beside him and sees Shouyou doing the same.

Breakfast at the forest (or, by the forest, far from home but not too deep inside) goes like this: Kiyoomi sets up two chairs and Shouyou sets up some grill and coal, singing softly. Kiyoomi notices then, how his singing joins in the birds chirping, joins the ever-rising colors of the sunrise. Shouyou has brought bread and butter and some fruits, Kiyoomi’s brought his coffee maker, finally used after Shouyou came.

(Appeared. Came. Whatever.)

When they finally settle and sit, Kiyoomi takes the buttered bread from Shouyou’s hands and cooks them, even if the first one turns out to be a little (a lot) burnt.

“Ah, that’s okay,” Shouyou convinces him, even if there’s a bubble of laughter by his lips. “It’s really okay, Omi-san!”

So, breakfast goes like this again: Shouyou cooks buttered toast. Kiyoomi makes coffee, the scent of the earth and the trees mingling in with the strong aroma of the coffee, slowly simmering. It’s sleepy laughter and sleepy faces, sluggish movements, and gentle touches and taps on the wrists.

Shouyou slowly wakes up, says with a soft smile and swollen eyes, “Omi-san’s coffee is my favorite.”

_It wasn’t much of a perfect journey._

_I used to make coffee a little too bitter,_

_or a little too sweet,_

_or a little too bland, a little too strong._

_But Sho never complained,_

_even if I see his face scrunch,_

_or his nose scrunch adorably._

_He would always drink and say,_

_“Omi-san’s coffee is my favorite!”_

_How cute can one get?_

— written on one of the pages in Sakusa Kiyoomi’s journal

They stay there for a while, listening to the gentle howling of the trees, silence accompanied by gentle sips of coffee and low murmurs. Along the way, Kiyoomi’s hand seeks to find Shouyou’s.

They always meet halfway through.

When the sunlight edges on a little hot and all the bread’s been eaten, coffee long cold and gone, Kiyoomi makes a move to stand and Shouyou does, too. It’s silent, the way they move around each other, cleaning things up; silent yet comfortable like they’ve been doing this for years.

( _We have_ , Kiyoomi screams at himself; fingers gingerly cleaning the small coffee maker. _You have, he has! It’s been years, Kiyoomi. Years!_ )

Shouyou takes his hand and smiles. Kiyoomi looks back at him and squeezes his. This is familiar. This is routine. This is something Kiyoomi has grown used to.

The walk back is more familiar, too. Shouyou walks and talks, more alive, brighter. Kiyoomi listens and adds some of his thoughts, wants to go home and write more about Shouyou—of his brightness, of his laugh, of his—

Kiyoomi freezes.

There on the porch, stands Komori Motoya. His eyes find them, holding hands, bags of stuff on their shoulders, and he smiles, small and familiar. He takes out a hand from his coat pocket and waves at them. Shouyou walks closer to him.

Kiyoomi feels frozen. _Not again_ , he panics for a moment, hands shaking to drop the foldable chairs in hand. _Not another Atsumu, I’m still not ready_.

(It’s been months since then but.

Kiyoomi can’t. He still—there’s still this—)

(Kiyoomi wants to keep it all to himself.)

They stand in front of him now, quiet and waiting. Kiyoomi wants to run inside the forest and to disappear for a while.

“Sakusa,” Motoya says with a smile, naturally and casually. Shouyou stays silent beside him and Kiyoomi wonders if he can handle this—if he can handle doing this for another day.

Motoya’s eyes slide over to Shouyou’s and Kiyoomi feels it then—the slow rise of panic and anxiety crawling up his throat. The trembling of his hand clasped tightly with Shouyou’s. The spinning and dizziness—

Motoya blinks and, “Hinata.”

_Is it wrong, to want to keep someone_

_for yourself?_

_Is it wrong, to want to love someone_

_just for yourself?_

_Is it so wrong that I want to keep him,_

_love him, all for myself?_

— written on a post-it note, that was then crumpled and thrown into the trash

“Komori-san,” Shouyou grins, like they’re familiar, like he’s been here for years. “Good morning!”

Kiyoomi feels like he’s been submerged underwater, head held by someone so still and so strong that he can’t even struggle against it. And so, he accepts it. The flooding of water inside of him, the loss of breath.

“You just missed us!” he hears Shouyou, so far away, blurry, wobbly, inside a bubble. “We just had breakfast by the forest!”

“Really?” Motoya asks and Kiyoomi feels the earth sway and spins beneath his feet. _How long?_ he wants to ask, _why? how?_ “Still a little cold today but it’s okay, Hinata. I’m just here for a quick visit.”

“Um,” Kiyoomi finds his voice, a little loud, a little too raspy. “Angel, can you take these back inside, please?”

“Hm? All right,” Shouyou does, fingers brushing against his. “Komori-san, would you like some water? Or coffee?”

“Ah, no, thank you,” Motoya grins at him and even helps Shouyou up the porch. “I think Sakusa wants to talk.”

Shouyou lets out a laugh and smiles at Kiyoomi behind him. “I’ll be inside!”

The front door closes with a soft push and Motoya turns to Kiyoomi. “What’s wrong—”

“Why do you know Sho?”

Kiyoomi stares at Motoya in shock, the ever-growing mold of anxiety and panic rising and crawling up from his stomach and to his throat. He can feel the earth sway beneath him and Motoya steps forward to him in shock and concern.

“What?”

“You,” Kiyoomi breathes out, hands shaking and head dizzy. “How do you know Sho?”

“Shouyou?” Motoya mumbles in confusion, eyebrows furrowed. “Sho? Shouyou? Your boyfriend of five, well, almost six years?”

“How do you know that?” Kiyoomi almost begs, walking up to him and resisting the urge to grab at his shoulders. His hands shake and ache, chest closing in on him as he looks at Motoya frantically. The other only looks at him in confusion and concern.

“What?” he asks, looking at him more carefully now. “Sakusa, what? What do you mean? You’ve been together since _high school_.”

Kiyoomi breathes in heavily and he holds tightly onto his other hand, feeling the shakiness. “What?” he breathes out, voice softening. “What?”

“What do you mean, _what_?” Motoya huffs, hands moving in exaggeration. “What? You want me to explain how your first date went? A freaking _volleyball match_?”

_I had called him ‘fever boy’ at first._

_It irritated me a lot when people_

_don’t know how to take care of themselves._

_But he only smiled and nodded at me,_

_“Don’t worry,” he had said, eyes bright_

_with determination. He had looked at me_

_and I felt my body shiver, entranced_

_by his stare._

_“I know better now,” he grinned at me, bright._

_“I’m better than before.”_

_[...]_

_I didn’t know much then, but I do know this:_

_I was smitten, infatuated, with Sho._

_When I had the courage, or whatever,_

_to ask him, he had only grinned at me, skin fresh_

_from the shower. “Go out?” he blinked then grinned._

_“I thought that match was a date!”_

— Sakusa Kiyoomi, _Excerpts from a novel I’d never publish_

“What the fuck,” Kiyoomi’s voice shakes as he looks at Motoya. His chest heaves and drops like a wild animal, wanting to be let out of its cage. “Are you fucking serious? How the fuck do you know that?”

“Sakusa!” Motoya groans in frustration. “What the hell is wrong with you? _What do you mean?_ ”

“Go inside,” Kiyoomi says instead, eyes looking everywhere except Motoya. His grip on his wrist only tightens and he only nods in frustration at Motoya’s confused look. “Go _the fuck inside_.”

They both go inside and Kiyoomi feels stuffy and uncomfortable, the familiar brown house looking like some prison to him. He nudges Motoya towards his room and tries to smile when Shouyou nears them.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks, brows crinkled in worry as Motoya looks at them in question before going to Kiyoomi’s room. “Omi?”

“Fine, fine,” Kiyoomi breathes out, smiling shakily at him. Shouyou’s eyes don’t help in calming him down, instead, he feels an angering spark when Shouyou’s hand touches his elbow. Kiyoomi jumps a little and lets out an exhale. “I’ll just—we’ll be back, angel, okay? Give us a moment.”

Kiyoomi runs over to the bedroom in haste and shock, hoping that Shouyou understands. He closes the door behind him and ignores Motoya’s questions. He looks around and runs over to his desk, opening a spare journal to a random page and writing in a hurried motion.

_sho doesn’t ask. he doesn’t ask about my weirdness for now or my sudden change. he doesn’t ask about me and why I’m acting like this. he doesn’t_

“Hey!” Kiyoomi turns in shock to Motoya, who had quickly snatched the journal from him. “Give that back!”

“Sakusa?” Motoya eyes the journal, eyes moving quickly to read the words he’d written. “What the fuck is this? What the fuck are you doing? What does this mean?”

Silence comes from outside and Kiyoomi almost crashes against his desk in exhaustion, trying to catch his breath. “I need,” Kiyoomi breathes out and looks at Motoya, knowing he probably looks insane. “How do you know Sho? Why _the fuck_ do you know that shit? How is all this real? What the fuck is going on? I need—I just, _how_? Komori, fucking, _how the fuck do you know_ —”

Kiyoomi gets cut off by a harsh slap sound and his head turns to the side. His eyes catch on the familiar red pen he uses, lying helplessly on the desk. 

“You’re scaring me,” stammers Motoya and it’s only then that he feels the stinging pain on his right cheek.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks. He looks back at Motoya and feels some ache, some twist in his chest.

“I’m sorry,” Kiyoomi stutters out, his mind clearing a little after the slap. He can’t even be mad at Motoya—he knows he deserves it. “I’m—I need to explain.”

Without warning, Kiyoomi hastily turns around and faces his laptop, littered with dust, unopened for months. It opens with a soft whir, the black screen lighting up.

“Of course, you do!” Motoya says from behind him and he takes in a shaky breath, seeing the familiar folders. He ignores Motoya for a while, going through the folders, fingers shaking as he clicks through six different sub-folders. The origin of Sho, hidden and safe.

“What the hell’s going on with you?” Motoya finally demands, shaking Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “Don’t ignore me, Sakusa!”

“I’m not, I’m not.” Kiyoomi says a little desperately and turns to him, almost shoving his laptop off the desk. “Please, just. Komori, please don’t ask questions for now. I just—read this.”

Motoya turns to the laptop with confused eyes and looks at Kiyoomi for an answer. Kiyoomi takes in a shaky exhale and just gestures to the laptop again, a long Word document open, all Kiyoomi’s writing. All about—

“What? What is this?” Motoya leans a little closer, face close to the screen as his eyes move rapidly across the screen. Kiyoomi walks back until the back of his knees hit his bed and he sits down, akin to collapsing. “Sho?” Motoya asks, voice quiet and unsure, moving closer to the screen.

“Sakusa? What the hell—” Motoya turns around to glare at him but Kiyoomi is quick to shake his head.

“Komori, please. Just read.” Kiyoomi watches in despair as Motoya looks at him, confusion explicit on his face. A minute of silence passes between before Motoya presses his lips together then turns back to the laptop, a shaky hand coming up to rest by the touchpad.

Kiyoomi watches as Motoya scrolls down further into the screen, further into Kiyoomi and Sho’s relationship, quiet and unsettling. Suddenly, it’s a little too hot inside his room and he breathes out. Takes off his jacket and holds onto the collar of his sweater.

“Oh my god.” Motoya mumbles, staying on a page before scrolling down again. Kiyoomi holds in his breath, waits for him to turn around, and to, maybe, throw his laptop at him. Say he’s going insane. The province life got to him. 

But he doesn’t. Motoya doesn’t do anything but to scroll down and down. 

Kiyoomi’s skin crawls as he looks at Motoya’s back anxiously, impatiently. Outside, it’s quiet. Not one laugh nor a sound. Not even Momo meowing or his paws scattering around on the wooden floor. Even the forest, always so loud and flashy in its wake, is quiet and unsettling by the window in his room. It feels like some nightmare, how it’s just Kiyoomi and Motoya and his hundred-page document of him and Sho.

(Sho? Shouyou. Shouyou? Or is it Sho? Is there—should there be a line between them? 

They’re the same person.)

Not long, Kiyoomi’s hands shake, pulling at the skin around his nails as the silence molds and crawls around them, reminding him of the weight of the situation. When Motoya continues to scroll down, mumbling underneath his breath, Kiyoomi speaks up. “Did they all happen?”

Motoya jumps a little, as if forgetting that he isn’t alone. He turns to him slowly, “What?”

“Did they happen?” Kiyoomi points to the laptop tiredly and sluggishly. “The scenes? Everything? The chapters?”

“Sakusa, what?” Motoya looks at him like he’s truly gone insane and Kiyoomi feels like it. He’s sitting on his own bed, yet it still feels unreal, like it isn’t his. It sways beneath him and he feels his body sway with it. Kinda like him and Sho last night. Whatever. “This is _real life_. This is you and Sho. I don’t even know why I’m reading this.”

Kiyoomi stares at Motoya and it’s like being pulled by some puppeteer, arms heavy and sluggish as he tries to sit up a little straighter. “No,” he manages to say without his voice cracking or breaking. He looks at Motoya seriously and stammers out, “That’s my novel. I wrote that.”

Motoya looks at him quietly before he tilts his head and says harshly, “ _What_?”

Kiyoomi flinches against his tone and the other only says again, “Don’t fucking joke with me, Sakusa.”

“I’m—I’m not.” Kiyoomi insists, and sits up, looking at Motoya desperately, wishing that he understands him. “Sho’s someone I wrote,” he spits out quickly, the words crawling out his mouth, “I just don’t understand why you know him and this story. Atsumu doesn’t.”

Motoya frowns and turns to the laptop before looking back at him. “What do you mean?”

“Atsumu doesn’t remember him, or _know_ him,” Kiyoomi recalls, lips shaking as he brings his knees closer to him. He looks at Motoya and it’s like his heart is aching to jump out his chest. “But Shouyou does, or something. He said he knew Atsumu from my stories but godfuck, how does that explain everything?”

When the silence gets a little too unbearable, Kiyoomi speaks up again. “I’m not kidding,” he says a little desperately. “I actually—I wrote Sho. Those are all mine. I’m not going crazy, Komori. I’m not—”

“I believe you, Sakusa,” Motoya says quickly and looks back at him, eyebrow crinkled in worry as he bites on his bottom lip. “I just…give me a moment.”

Motoya stays quiet and turns back to the screen again, scrolling down and then up. Kiyoomi stares and waits, wants to speak up again whenever he hears Motoya mumble to himself. He sits there, contemplating of what he’s just said when Motoya turns to him again, nodding his towards the screen. Kiyoomi stands up a little straighter.

“Sakusa, look,” Motoya urges him to come closer and Kiyoomi does, surprised that he still has energy inside of him to do so. He leans down and looks at the screen, eyes blurring and dizzy. Motoya is constant beside him, fingers pointing at the screen. “You never wrote Shouyou interacting with others. Shouyou and I had a conversation. Look.”

Kiyoomi does.

_I was a bit embarrassed,_

_letting Komori talk to Sho. I mean,_

_can you imagine what stories he might tell?_

_I sat beside Sho, water bottle on hand as Komori grinned at him._

_“What’s your plans after high school, Hinata?” he asked, head tilting and_

_I frowned, wanting to be alone with him._

_“Me?” Sho repeated, looking at me for a moment before_

_looking back at Komori with a bright smile._

_“I wanna do beach volleyball!”_

Kiyoomi stares at the screen in silence before it scrolls further down and he jumps, looking at Motoya. Motoya, instead, looks fiercely at the screen and nods toward it. “Look,” he mumbles and Kiyoomi turns his head again. “The others? They’re, like, background characters.”

“What?” Kiyoomi mumbles and blinks rapidly, eyes focusing on the screen.

_Sho waved back to his team and I turned around, too,_

_to wave back, or smile, whatever._

_“Ah, Omi-san,” Sho laughed, hand tightening against mine as he smiles up at me._

_“You look so mean! Don’t worry, Kageyama won’t hurt you!”_

_“I’m not scared of him,” I rolled my eyes, pulling him closer to me. “Why would I be scared?”_

_“Ah,” Sho ignored me and I raised a brow at him._

_“Maybe Tanaka-san might scare you, though.”_

_I gave him a little shove and smiled underneath my mask when I heard him laugh._

“See?” Motoya urges and Kiyoomi looks back at him, head spinning. “I don’t think Hinata has talked to Kageyama or to Bokuto or to Atsumu. It’s just you and him.”

Kiyoomi’s throat clogs up again and he croaks out, “That’s—that’s why he doesn’t know them?”

“Maybe,” Motoya whispers back, eyes looking back at Kiyoomi with equal confusion and strangeness.

“But,” Kiyoomi whispers out, hands shaking as he turns to the screen and then back to Motoya, itching to look back at the door as well. “What about him? Why does he know Atsumu? Does he know about the others? Would that even make any sense? What happens to his memories? His _past_?”

“Jesus, Sakusa,” Motoya pulls away from him by kicking at the floor, the sound of the chair’s wheel echoing. He looks back at him, lips pinched tight. “I don’t _know_. This is all _yours_.”

 _This is what you’ve done_ , is what he wants to hear, head turning slowly to face the document again. This wasn’t even all the files. There’s still on random post-it notes scattered all over his room, hidden from Sho, on his multiple journals.

 _This is all your fault_ , is what he wants to hear.

“Komori,” he mumbles and turns to him, begging. “Please tell me mine and Sho’s relationship.”

Motoya looks at him, maybe in pity, or sorrowful, but he nods a little and gestures for Kiyoomi to sit on the bed. “All right,” he sighs out and starts.

Motoya recalls, their relationship, their high school, who Sho is—who _Shouyou_ is. Shouyou and Karasuno. Shouyou and the little giant. Shouyou and Kiyoomi meeting. How they started. How they fell apart. And how they started again.

All of it, Kiyoomi’s written, yet he didn’t show it to anyone else.

Motoya sits in front of him, eyes a little hazy and a smile on his lips, like it’s all real, the memories distant and fond. Kiyoomi sits in front of him, body sweating and hands shaking, eyes almost tearing up in fear.

He didn’t show anyone his writing. But how does Motoya know all of this?

Motoya says, Kiyoomi and Shouyou are in a break from playing professional volleyball. Maybe it’s an injury. Maybe it’s just a break. No one knows. Kiyoomi and Shouyou never told anyone, just decided to take a break. Their break is nearing a year.

(Kiyoomi knows why. Knows it’s for him.)

Motoya says, _you and Shouyou? You two are gonna go to Brazil. You said it was for him. I wasn’t sure if you were coming with him, but I was so proud of you two then. I was so excited, too_.

(Kiyoomi feels a tiny pinch of excitement.)

Motoya says, _your relationship was so special; everyone knew. After high school, something happened. But you two found each other again, didn’t you? Everyone wished for it and then, it happened. You two found each other again, like fate. Or destiny, whatever_.

(Kiyoomi wonders if there’s a world where he deserves Hinata Shouyou.)

Soon enough, Kiyoomi feels a tear slip down his face and he gasps, covering his face with his hands. “God,” he mumbles and doesn’t wait for Motoya to speak. “Komori, this is fucked up.”

Kiyoomi looks up at Motoya again and tells.

Of the first time they met.

Of what happened next.

Of what Kiyoomi did.

Of what happened with Atsumu.

Of the months that soon came.

Of the party invitation.

Motoya listens and listens and listens.

For the first time in months, Kiyoomi spills it all out. The fear. The attachment. The commitment. The reality of everything. The reality of Sho.

Kiyoomi looks at him and asks, “What happens when Sho asks about his memories? What happens when Shouyou goes up to Kageyama and asks about their high school? What happens, Komori? What the fuck happens then?”

Motoya doesn’t say anything but it’s an answer enough for Kiyoomi. He leans his elbows against his knees and wills himself not to cry.

Outside, the wind finally howls alongside Kiyoomi. Outside, the house is silent. No trace of laughter or life outside. In front of him, Motoya stares at Kiyoomi and hopes.

“Are you still going to the party?” Motoya asks suddenly and Kiyoomi sniffles, feeling a little embarrassed.

“What?”

“The party, on Friday,” Motoya recalls. “Are you still going?”

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi forces out to say, blinking rapidly to stop the tears from spilling again. “Atsumu wants the others to meet Sho.”

“And you?”

Kiyoomi takes a deep breath and looks up at him. _Me?_

“What about me?”

“Do you want him to meet them?” Motoya asks him simply and Kiyoomi’s breath stutters. It was such a simple question and yet.

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi croaks out and nods, as if trying to convince himself too. “Of course, I do.”

“You’re lying,” Motoya says after staring at him, eyes calculated and focused.

Kiyoomi straightens up and shakes his head, “What? I’m not.”

“You’re lying,” Motoya narrows his eyes and moves a little closer, the chair heavy against the floor. “I know you, Sakusa.”

Kiyoomi stays quiet and Motoya does, too.

“You don’t want them to meet?” Motoya asks quietly, the silence between them getting heavier as Kiyoomi stays quiet, lets the question circle around his mind.

“It’s complicated.” Kiyoomi says with finality. He looks up at Motoya and hopes that his voice sounds confident. He hides his shaking hands in-between his legs. “The situation is gonna be complicated. You know this, Komori.”

 _I can’t handle another Atsumu situation_ , is what he wants to say, eyes almost begging at Motoya. _I can’t do this again. I can’t risk it, even if it’s for him_.

“So, you’re just gonna keep him to yourself?”

“No!” Kiyoomi almost shouts and reels back in shock. “No, what the hell? We’re still going. I just—I’ll think of something.”

Kiyoomi stares at Motoya and says firmly, “I’ll think of something, okay?”

Motoya looks at him, focused and concentrated and Kiyoomi has the inkling that the conversation’s over. This is how he and Shouyou met and fell and met again. This time, in a different world, in different circumstances, where the world is a little bit crueler.

“Don’t be the bad guy, Sakusa.” Motoya finally says, voice quiet and small. Kiyoomi looks at him and wonders. “Don’t hurt Shouyou.”

When Motoya turns to leave, Kiyoomi accompanies him and they go outside to see Shouyou sleeping on the couch, Momo curled up adorably on his chest. Kiyoomi pauses by the end of the couch and stares, wants his chest to flood with love and affection. Motoya stares back at him.

Kiyoomi tiredly nods towards the front door and they walk out, quietly, the silence heavy and dark.

“Thank you for believing me,” Kiyoomi mumbles just when they’re outside and he’s leaning against the front door. “I know it—it all seems insane, or _I_ am but, what I said earlier is true, Komori.”

“I believe you, Sakusa,” Motoya answers back just as quietly. “I just want you to make the right decisions.”

“I will,” Kiyoomi says firmly and looks at him with tired eyes. “I will.”

“And I’m sorry,” Motoya adds quickly, “for slapping you earlier. It was just—”

“No, it’s okay,” Kiyoomi says quietly. “I needed it.”

It’s silent between them and Kiyoomi turns to him to say goodbye when Motoya looks at him again, eyes focused and serious.

“Komori?”

“Sakusa,” Motoya says and sighs, “just,” he cautions, looking at him seriously. “Don’t be the bad guy, okay?”

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi answers, small and quiet. Inside of him, his heart jumps and falls. “I know.”

When Motoya leaves, Kiyoomi follows his disappearing figure, chest heavying with what happened.

When Motoya leaves, Kiyoomi returns to the still-quiet house and sits on the end of the couch, staring at Shouyou’s sleeping body. He stares and his hand finds comfort and warmth in Shouyou’s hand.

_I had read once. Or watched it once, whatever._

_Bad guys don’t get the girl._

_Am I the bad guy? Am I one?_

_Am I the bad guy for wanting to not make things difficult?_

_So that Sho won’t have to suffer?_

_I want him to be free. That’s all I ever want for him._

_But why does it seem like I’m the one who’s imprisoning him?_

_I’m not the bad guy._

Shouyou laughs and he talks, and he smiles and Kiyoomi sits in front of him, staring with hands shaking.

Shouyou is warm and familiar, in his arms; when his arms are all wrapped around Kiyoomi; with hair tickling their necks; minty breaths mingling with each other, and soft laughter whispered on the night.

Unfamiliar to him, Kiyoomi looks at Shouyou, graced with the moonlight, and wants it to last for one more day.

_sho doesn’t want to be at the party,_

_this, he thinks of, after a few hours._

_maybe, the memories don’t come flooding. maybe they don’t appear to sho._

_but this is certain:_

_he doesn’t want to be there._

_he wants to be at home._

_with me. only me._

“Omi-san?”

Kiyoomi jumps and looks behind him to see Shouyou, dressed in a sweater and one of Kiyoomi’s coat, long and oversized on him. “Omi-san?” Shouyou asks again after a minute of Kiyoomi staring. “Are you done? Let’s go!”

“Oh,” Kiyoomi blinks and hurries to hide the post-it note he has been writing on. “Yeah, let’s go, Sho.”

Kiyoomi walks closer to him and smiles, holding onto Shouyou’s awaiting hand. Shouyou is quick to talk about anything, from gardening and Momo and to volleyball. Kiyoomi looks at him and smiles, talks a little too.

It’s still hours away from the party but Shouyou had suggested to walk towards Atsumu’s house, a little closer to the city and very far from them. Kiyoomi had agreed stupidly, of course. Mainly because he hasn’t gone out and has forgotten how far he actually lives.

The setting sun reflects on Shouyou’s face and he smiles up at Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi adjusts Shouyou’s mask for him and mumbles, quiet, “We’re close, I think.”

Shouyou hums and moves closer to him, head leaning against his shoulder. “I’m so excited to meet them, Omi-san!”

Kiyoomi had thought about it, how it’ll probably go. How the memories might get mixed, maybe Shouyou might remember something, or worst, Shouyou might say something and it—it scares Kiyoomi. He can’t explain it all, to everyone, especially at a party.

For now, Kiyoomi looks at Shouyou, illuminated by the reds and pinks of the sky, and hopes that it all goes smoothly from then.

(Kiyoomi is scared, that Shouyou might get a little too close, remember something from the novel and then everyone will look at him, confused, and then they’ll look at Kiyoomi. He can’t risk that. He can’t risk the thought of Shouyou remembering, looking at them all and wondering why this is their first time meeting him. He can’t risk it.)

(Kiyoomi isn’t the bad guy. He’s not. He just…)

For now, Kiyoomi looks at Shouyou, bright and kissed by the sunset, and forgets. For tonight, he’ll forget and hope.

(Kiyoomi wants to keep Sho all to himself.)

_he doesn’t want to be there._

_he wants to be at home._

_with me. only me._

They arrive a bit late, distracted by the vendors and the little trinkets they sell. Kiyoomi had watched patiently with a smile underneath his mask as Shouyou talks softly with the vendors, voice bright and friendly. It had been a little long of a conversation, the vendor seeming to love Shouyou a little bit too much, explaining the wooden figures to him, explaining the stories behind them, how much they mean to the vendor.

 _You just make everyone fall in love with you, ‘no?_ Kiyoomi asks, staring at Shouyou and his bright eyes. Even with the mask covering his mouth, Kiyoomi can hear the laughter in his voice.

In the end, Kiyoomi had to softly nudge at Shouyou’s side and mumble, “We’re running a little late, angel.”

Shouyou leaves with two bags full of wooden figures, one filled with ones he bought and the other, just because. “I feel so guilty, Omi-san!” Shouyou had cried, their footsteps quiet and in-sync. “I wanna pay for them but he wouldn’t let me!”

“It’s ‘cause you’re so cute,” Kiyoomi mumbles, and his pinky links with Shouyou’s. When he looks away from Shouyou, he sees instantly the small house where Atsumu and Shinsuke lives. Kiyoomi takes a deep breath and he feels Shouyou’s hand squeeze his.

“Omi-san,” he hears, and he turns to him. “Good?”

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi finds himself saying, the note he’s written earlier echoing around his mind. “Good.”

Shouyou smiles at him and for a moment, Kiyoomi tries to forget what it’s like to feel guilty.

Atsumu opens the door for them, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. “Omi! Shouyou-kun!” he says, grinning widely. “You came!”

“Of course,” Kiyoomi grunts, glancing at Shouyou’s wide eyes. “Sorry, we’re late.”

Atsumu shrugs and moves so they can come in. “It’s nothin’! Come in, come in.”

The chatter and small crowd of people that Kiyoomi sees makes him take a deep breath, eyes looking at everyone and everything. He feels a hand squeeze his and he jumps a little, looking at Shouyou, who’s looking at Atsumu.

“Atsumu-san!” he says, bright and happy. Kiyoomi watches as he extends his hand and offers a bag of wooden figures. It’s the one he bought. “A little gift for inviting us! Or you can give it to Osamu-san, too!”

“Shouyou-kun!” Atsumu cries in shock and gingerly takes the bag, looking at it with wide eyes. “You didn’t have to!”

Kiyoomi smiles underneath his mask. _Of course_ , he thinks, looking at Shouyou.

“It’s okay, Atsumu-san!” Shouyou laughs, shaking his head. “It’s really okay! I wanted to!”

“Ah, Shouyou-kun,” Atsumu fake-sniffles and holds the bag close to his chest. “I love it! I’m taking this from ‘Samu!”

“You fool,” Kiyoomi starts to say when he sees Osamu’s familiar figure behind Atsumu.

“What are you taking from me?”

“’Samu!” Atsumu jumps and hides the bag behind him, winking at Shouyou. “Nothin’!”

Osamu looks at Kiyoomi and smiles. “Thanks for coming, Sakusa. You missed the ‘surprise’ this idiot did, though.”

“Ah, it’s okay,” Kiyoomi laughs a little loudly when Atsumu squawks and turns to his brother, offended. He then turns to Shouyou with a small gesture. “Oh, this is Sho.”

“Hinata Shouyou,” Shouyou introduces himself, offering his hand.

“Shouyou,” Osamu hums and looks at him before giving him a warm smile, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet ya. I’m Osamu.”

“Nice to meet you, Osamu-san!” Shouyou grins. “Congratulations on your new branch!”

“Ah,” Osamu looks a bit surprised but still, he nods at Shouyou. “Thank you! Well, I hope you enjoy the party.”

“Thank you, Osamu-san,” Kiyoomi interjects and tugs Shouyou closer to him. “Congratulations to your new branch, as well.”

When Atsumu motions for them to go inside more, Kiyoomi watches as Shouyou slides down his mask under his chin, greeting everyone with a large smile. Everyone looks at Kiyoomi, a little weirdly, a little worried, the _he’s been away for so long, hasn’t he? all cooped up in his house?_ And then, the outward _sakusa! we missed you! volleyball isn’t the same without you, man._

Kiyoomi listens to them all and nods, the familiar touch of Shouyou’s hand against his comforting. Shouyou is loud yet he fits right in, jumping lightly beside him as he shakes different hands and smiles at different faces. Kiyoomi looks at them all and wonders if anyone notices anything familiar about Shouyou.

( _You know him_ , he wants to shout when Kageyama shyly shakes Shouyou’s hand and bows a little. _You were his setter! You knew him since high school! Why won’t you remember him?_

He looks at Kageyama and wants to shake him. He looks at everyone, introducing themselves and acting like Shouyou is someone new, someone different. He looks at Shouyou and feels an ache in his chest.)

(Kiyoomi doesn’t want this to happen.

Kiyoomi wants to—

he wants to keep it all to himself.

Wants to keep the sadness in, the familiarity,

the warmth,

the brightness.)

It pulls and tugs at Kiyoomi, when Shouyou gets swept away by the people and the laughter, body and laughter fitting right in, alongside Bokuto’s, alongside Suna’s, alongside Atsumu’s. Kiyoomi stays hidden, leaned against the wall as his eyes focus on Shouyou. With a drink in hand and mask pulled underneath his chin, he tries to stay focused and tries not to look too sad, making sure not to lose Shouyou from his sight.

And it isn’t hard.

Under the yellow, fluorescent lights, Shoyou looks too beautiful—cheeks high from his smile, eyes bright and wide, capturing the one speaking to him. His laugh is soft yet loud, heard by everyone, people taking a double-take to look at him and then to smile softly.

Shoyou was too beautiful, it made Kiyoomi’s chest ache as he stood in the side, looking at him.

His eyes catch on Kageyama then, hunched and quiet, standing in front of him yet his eyes focused on Shoyou, fingers twitching by his sides. Kiyoomi gets off the wall and looks a little closer to him, raises a brow at the high blush on his cheeks. With a sigh, he walks closer to him, close to make him jump when he feels Kiyoomi’s presence behind him, but not enough for them to touch.

“Kageyama,” Kiyoomi mumbles close to his ear and watches as Kageyama’s eye widen and he jumps, looking at Kiyoomi nervously. Kiyoomi watches as he steps away a little, eyes frantic. “Hm. What’s with you and Shouyou?”

“Wha-What?” Kageyama barks, looking at him weirdly yet his eyes drift from Kiyoomi and then to Shouyou, the blush on his cheeks reddening. “Nothing, Sakusa-san! What are you talking about?”

Kiyoomi leans a little closer and narrows his eyes. “Hm.”

He looks at Kageyama closer, at his wide eyes, the blush on his cheeks, his tongue, swiping out to quickly lick at his bottom lip. He looks at him then looks at Shouyou. Oh, he thinks. Well, he kind of expected this.

“Ah.”

“Ah?” Kageyama says roughly, looking at him with glared eyes.

“Sho is pretty, no?” Kiyoomi whispers then, a little playful, voice dropped low and eyes calculating. He lets himself smile at the way Kageyama’s breath hitches and he stumbles back a little, looking at Kiyoomi with wide eyes.

“Sakusa-san—”

“It’s okay,” Kiyoomi stands up straight and smiles at Kageyama, borderline teasing and evil. “Shoyou is so pretty, no? Do you know that he was so nervous in meeting you all? Asked me a million times about his hair earlier.”

Kiyoomi grins, sly and teasing. He watches as Kageyama looks at him, eyes suddenly nervous and wide. “Sakusa-san,” Kageyama stammers out, glancing at Shouyou for a moment before looking back at him. “I’m—I’m sorry!”

Kiyoomi lets out a huff and straightens up. “Hm.”

“I’m sorry,” Kageyama mutters out again, glancing at Kiyoomi’s lips before his eyes drift away. “It’s just—”

“Just?” Kiyoomi presses on, leaning a little closer and smiling at Kageyama’s flushed cheeks.

“He looks familiar, Sakusa-san,” Kageyama mutters out and looks at him with wide eyes. “I’m—I’m not saying anything! He’s just—”

“Hm,” Kiyoomi cuts him off, an odd feeling bubbling inside of his chest. “Kageyama?”

“Yes!” Kageyama says suddenly, eyes wide at him, chest heaving a little as his eyes drift from Kiyoomi to Shouyou and then to Kiyoomi again.

“It’s okay, Kageyama,” Kiyoomi says and looks back at Shoyou, catching his eyes. His chest jumps and twists when Shoyou grins at him, waving his hand excitedly. He looks back at Kageyama with a grin, a little smug. “Just a crush, yeah?”

It’s a blur then, Kageyama rushing off to find someone with bright cheeks as Kiyoomi follows his disappearing figure. He smiles at Shouyou, surrounded by laughter and bright lights, and the other smiles back, his smile that’s reserved for Kiyoomi, soft and warm. Kiyoomi turns and heads to the kitchen, his hand shaking around the empty cup that he’s been holding for an hour.

When he steps inside, he’s met with Atsumu and Kita, close and whispering, cheeks flushed. His eyes meet Kita’s and he nods. Atsumu whirls around with a grin.

“Kita-san,” he says with a slight bow. “It’s been a while.”

“Nice to see you again, Sakusa,” Kita says with a smile, letting go of Atsumu’s hand to walk closer to Kiyoomi. “How have you been?”

Kiyoomi had always felt too nervous talking to Kita, how he can’t seem to lie with him, how he can’t help but be drawn to Kita. It’s a bit of a problem, Kiyoomi can’t lie to him.

“Good,” Kiyoomi smiles at him and Kita smiles back. “Uhm, Shouyou’s good, too.”

“That’s nice to hear!” Kita grins and tilts his head. “How’s writing? We missed you a lot these past months. I hope you didn’t mind Atsumu and I bringing you food then.”

“Ah, it’s okay, Kita-san,” Kiyoomi hurries to say with a nod. “I appreciated it, thank you. I wouldn’t have survived without you both.”

“That’s what friends are for, Sakusa,” Kita laughs a little then turns when Atsumu makes a noise. “Ah, sorry, do you mind?”

“No, no,” Kiyoomi motions to his empty cup. “I was just getting something to drink.”

“Hm, well, you know where the drinks are,” Kita smiles at him, familiar and nice. “It’s good to have you back, Sakusa.”

“Me too, Kita-san,” Kiyoomi mumbles when Kita has long since nodded at him and left, helping Atsumu on the other side of the kitchen. “It’s good to have me back, huh?”

Kiyoomi stays in the kitchen, yet his eyes still catch on Shouyou’s, his laugh, his smile, his eyes that always look at Kiyoomi’s. He keeps refilling his drink, slowly and surely, trying not to get his head a little too hazy, a little bit dizzy. He can’t risk it.

Soon enough, Kiyoomi finds Shouyou in front of him, holding onto his cup. “Omi-san,” he laughs, sweetly, softly. “How much have you been drinking?”

“Not many,” Kiyoomi smiles at him. “I promise, Sho.”

“Don’t worry, Omi-san,” Shouyou giggles, cheeks flushed and sweaty. “I’m not mad, don’t worry.”

Then, before Kiyoomi can speak, “Do you wanna go home already, Omi-san?”

Kiyoomi looks at Shouyou, bright and smiling, underneath the fluorescent lights. He lets out a small huff. “Good,” he mumbles, a hand rising to rest on Shouyou’s waist. “Let’s go home.”

Kiyoomi is thankful, how they leave so easily, Shouyou quiet and smiling beside him as he nods at everyone. Kiyoomi doesn’t notice the confused stares and instead nods at everyone. They both congratulate Osamu one more time before leaving.

It had been too easy, too quiet, and too effortless.

_he wants to be at home._

_with me. only me._

The walk home was quiet and quick, their footsteps just as quiet as them yet familiar, the roads and vendors closed and asleep. It irked Kiyoomi a little, how Shouyou was so quiet and idle beside him, eyes stared down at the ground. Kiyoomi holds him close instead, listens to the night air around them. It’s a little cold tonight. He voices this out to Shouyou.

“Hm?” Shouyou hums, not looking up from the ground. “Ah, it is, isn’t it, Omi-san?”

Kiyoomi looks at him, wonders if something happened. He sighs, maybe later.

They reach home and Shouyou is still quiet and pliant beside him, almost dragging his own feet and when Kiyoomi unlocks the door, he turns to him, “So, what happened earlier, Sho?”

Shouyou closes the door behind him and looks up at Kiyoomi with a shocked expression. “Hm?”

Kiyoomi stares at him weirdly. “The party earlier, Sho. What happened? Did you have fun?”

Shouyou stays quiet and walks past him, towards the bedroom. “It was all right.”

“Sho?” Kiyoomi asks, turning to his slow-walking body with furrowed brows. “What’s wrong with you? Are you okay?”

“What?” Shouyou turns to him, eyes hazy before he blinks and his brows furrow as he lets a confused smile paint his lips. “Ah! I’m okay, Omi-san. It was nothing. They just asked about us.”

“Oh,” Kiyoomi watches as Shouyou turns to walk away when the words settle on his mind and his feet move on its own, gripping at Shouyou’s elbow. “What?”

“Ow!” Shouyou jumps and turns to him in shock. “Omi-san?”

“What do you mean?”

“What?” Shouyou looks at him, confused and mellow. “Omi?”

“What did they ask you?” Kiyoomi asks hurriedly, hands tightening their grip on Shouyou’s elbow. “Answer me, Sho. What did they ask you?”

“Omi, let go of me!” Shouyou huffs, pulling at his arm. “What’s wrong with you? We just talked about anything!”

“Did you say anything?” Kiyoomi almost spits out harshly, eyes looking wildly at Shouyou. “Sho, answer me.”

“What do you mean?” Shouyou asks, eyebrows furrowed as he finally pulls away from his grip. “They asked me about our relationship! Of course, I’d answer them!”

“What did you say?”

“Omi-san, what the hell is wrong with you?” Shouyou takes a step back, eyes fiery and bright. “They asked me how long we’ve been together, so I said since high school! What’s so wrong in answering that?”

“What the fuck,” Kiyoomi spits, eyes darting around the room. “What the fuck did you say?”

“What the fuck?” Shouyou curses, looking at him weirdly, lip pulled to a frown. “Stop cursing at me!”

“What did you say, Sho?” Kiyoomi asks again, voice firm and vicious as he walks away from him and looks at his discarded journal, on top of his laptop, on the coffee table. He quickly takes it and flips through it, gripping at his pen. “Sho!”

“Jesus Christ,” Shouyou groans and walks closer to him, standing in front of him. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Is it so bad to be proud of our relationship?”

“Sho,” Kiyoomi breathes out, looking at the blank page and then at him. “What did you say?”

“Bokuto-san asked me how we met,” Shouyou huffs out, looking at him with furrowed brows. “So, I told him we met in high school! I told him it’s been years! That’s what happened, right?”

It flashes to him then, the weird stares at the party when they left. The worried glance Atsumu gave him after Bokuto approached him. Kiyoomi lets out a shaky exhale and grips at his pen. “Oh my god. What the _fuck_ , Sho?”

“Stop!” Shouyou says loudly, stepping closer to him. “Stop! Don’t call me Sho! Call me Shouyou. _Shouyou_.”

“Why?” Kiyoomi asks him, moving a little closer. “Sho’s your name, isn’t it?”

“No,” Shouyou shakes his head. “You’ve been calling me Sho ever since! I had to ask you to call me Shouyou, my _own name_. Call me Shouyou! Don’t shout at me!”

“I’m not shouting at you,” Kiyoomi tries to say calmly before he steps closer, Shouyou moving back a step. “Why did you talk about us?”

“Stop,” Shouyou mumbles, eyes bright and a bit tearful. “Stop! Don’t shout at me, Kiyoomi.”

Then, with glared eyes, “Why wouldn’t I, Kiyoomi? It’s our _relationship_. They asked me how we met, who I am! Maybe if you didn’t coop me up in here, I wouldn’t have to answer all their questions!”

Kiyoomi stares at him in shock, hand tightening around the pages of his journal. “Cooped up? I had to let you stay here!”

“Why?” Shouyou asks back desperately. “Kiyoomi, we’ve been here for _months_. I keep asking you if we could go back to Tokyo—if we could go play volleyball. You keep saying _no_. Bokuto-san and the others are in a team and—”

“Stop!” Kiyoomi almost shouts, the cap of his pen falling to the door. “Just—stop.”

“Kiyoomi? What do you mean?”

Kiyoomi ignores him and looks down at his journal. His hand moves on its own across the page.

_he wants freedom. he wants independence._

_I’m going to give it to him._

_sho wants free_

“Stop!” Shouyou finally shouts and Kiyoomi jumps in shock at his volume, his pen making a harsh line against the paper in his haste. “Stop writing! I don’t wanna be here anymore, Kiyoomi, I don’t—”

“What?” Kiyoomi mumbles, hands shaking as he looks down at what he wrote. “Wait, no—”

“Don’t follow me,” Shouyou says firmly, eyes full of rage and hatred. “I’m—I’m tired, Kiyoomi. I wanna go out. I wanna be outside with—”

“No,” Kiyoomi cuts him off, hands shaking harshly. “You can’t. You can’t leave me.”

He looks down at the journal, shaky hands and shaky handwriting moving harshly across the page.

_sho wants freedom._

_but he sees it with me._

“I’m sorry,” Shouyou suddenly says, eyes blinking rapidly. “Omi-san, I won’t leave.”

_No._

“No,” Kiyoomi gasps out, taking a step back as Shouyou moves closer to him. “Wait, no.”

“Omi-san?”

Kiyoomi looks back down at his journal and wills his hand to write, the pen shaking harshly against the page, leaving random ink lines in its wake.

“Omi-san?” Shouyou’s voice is so far away. “Please don’t leave me, I’m sorry.”

“Stop,” Kiyoomi mumbles, fear and uncertainty crawling around his body, clawing at his hands and throat. “Sho, stop.”

“ _Shouyou_ ,” he suddenly says and Kiyoomi glances at him to see tears slowly slipping down his face. “Kiyoomi, it’s _Shouyou_. Please—don’t leave—don’t ignore me, we can—”

Kiyoomi wills himself to ignore the dry sobs Shouyou lets out as he keeps moving away from him, almost tripping by the ends of the couch. He looks down at his journal and—

_sho doesn’t want to leave me. he isn’t shouyou. he isn’t hinata._

_he’s my sho. he doesn’t care about names, about independence, about freedom._

_no. sho wants freedom, remember?_

_he wants independence_

_I have to be strong_

_I have to_

“Stop!”

“Fuck!” Kiyoomi watches in shock as his journal leaves out of his sight and he follows it to see Shouyou’s eyes rapidly moving across the pages.

“Stop ignoring me!” Shouyou cries, looking back at Kiyoomi with flushed cheeks and tearful eyes. “Stop—stop writing! What are you even writing?”

“No,” Kiyoomi breathes out, stumbling closer, hands reaching out. “Sho, stop—”

“What is this?” Shouyou hiccups, chest heaving as his eyes follow Kiyoomi’s writing. “What? What the fuck is this?”

_Stop, stop, stop. Don’t read it—don’t leave me._

_I want you to be free. Please leave me, Hinata Shouyou._

“Let go of that,” Kiyoomi spits out harshly, pulling the journal away from Shouyou’s trembling hands. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Stop, Kiyoomi,” Shouyou says, begging and desperate. “Please don’t leave me, I—I promise, I’m sorry—”

“No,” Kiyoomi shakes his head, taking a step back, away from Shouyou. The room closes in on him and he looks back at his journal again.

“Omi, _please_. Don’t—Don’t look at that, please—let’s talk about—”

The pen moves across the paper, Kiyoomi’s hand is shaking yet it’s still able to move.

_he doesn’t want to leave_

_he wants to leave_

“Kiyoomi, let me go!”

_he doesn’t want to leave_

“Omi-san, I’m sorry, please—”

_he doesn’t want to le_

Shouyou falls to his knees on the floor and Kiyoomi watches in shock, journal falling from his hands. It falls to a loud clutter and Kiyoomi looks at Shouyou, the sound of his body hitting the floor echoing on his ears.

_doesn’t want to leave me._

“Kiyoomi, please,” Shouyou sobs out, hands clutching at his chest. “Please—I don’t know—”

Kiyoomi stands frozen as Shouyou’s hand almost claws at the floor, dry heaves spilling out his mouth. Momo walks closer to Shouyou, meowing softly.

“Momo, no,” Kiyoomi starts to say, willing his legs to move.

“Omi-san,” Shouyou sobs out, exhaustion lacing his voice as he proceeds to heave. “I don’t—I’m so tired—”

Kiyoomi feels like he’s been pulled out of water, the ringing in his ears slowing to a stop as he listens to Shouyou’s sobs, his bright hair illuminated by the white lights, hands clawing at the floor.

“Shouyou,” Kiyoomi says as Momo bumps his head on Shouyou’s trembling shoulder. He makes a step closer. “I—”

In a blink, Shouyou stands up, hands clutching at Momo and he runs past Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi breathes in the cold air that breezes past him and then the loud slam of his bedroom door echoing around the house. When he turns around, the lock clicks in place.

Kiyoomi walks closer to the couch and grips at it tightly, slowly sinking down to the plushness.

The aftermath of what happened crashes onto him then, as he stares at the coffee table, at the fallen journal on the floor, at his pen that’s slowly rolling to a stop. He can hear Shouyou loudly sobbing inside his bedroom, his cries echoing around the house and Kiyoomi lets out a sudden sob of his own, hand coming up to his mouth as he almost vomits.

He sits on the couch, chest heaving with ache and heaviness, eyesight blurring as he grips at the couch, sobs spilling out of him.

He can’t take it.

Not anymore.

His hands are rough against his face as he tries to wipe away at his tears. He can’t stop crying—it’s all too much.

Kiyoomi stares at the empty expense of the living room and stares.

An hour passes by. Hours pass by. Kiyoomi stays seated on the couch. Shouyou’s cries had softened, sniffles still so loud against Kiyoomi’s ears.

He eyes his laptop.

Kiyoomi doesn’t wanna be the bad guy anymore.

Kiyoomi stares at the wooden door of his bedroom, hands heavy with almost a hundred pages of a story. Him and Sho. Shouyou Hinata.

It’s quiet inside, almost like no one’s inside.

He bends down and places the heavy stack in front of it and slips a post-it note inside. He doesn’t wait.

He stands up and takes a bag with him, leaving the door quickly, heaviness weighing down his entire body.

_This is all of you. All of your life, all of your kindness, all of your sadness._

_You’re free. This time, I promise it._

_You’re free and you will leave. You’ll forget about me, all about me._

_You’ll forget all about us and all about this._

_Maybe I’ll pray to the gods for you. Maybe they’ll spare us. Maybe they’ll spare you._

_I’ll forget about you, too. I’ll grow. I’ll be better._

_But I promise not to forget the warmth and light you gave me. I promise._

_Thank you for the last months. Hinata Shouyou._

_I love you._

Kiyoomi takes a walk, the last traces of winter air dancing around him as he huffs out breaths, hands tightened around his bag and a shovel Kita had gifted him once. The forest looms close on him, the awakening rays of the sun barely gracing him through the tight spaces of the trees and leaves. His footsteps are quiet, the ground still soft from the melting snow.

He walks further deeper into the forest, ignoring the ache in his chest as he passes by familiar spots.

_This is where Shouyou found a ‘rare beetle’._

_This is where Shouyou kissed me._

_This is where Shouyou almost tripped, holding onto me with a laugh._

_Shouyou. Shouyou. Shouyou. Shouyou. Shouyou. Shouyou_.

Kiyoomi stops walking. He looks up at the morning sky and closes his eyes. Breathes deeply. Breathes in. Breathes out.

He slowly opens his eyes and looks at the glimmers of the sunrise passing through the small spaces of the trees. He looks down at the soft ground and digs. Ignores the dirt jumping up at his sweatpants-covered legs, the dirt crawling on his fingers, the dirt flying everywhere.

Just this once.

He digs until his breathing is loud enough to echo around the forest, the birds chirping ceasing to look at him. He falls to his knees and clutches at his bag.

Inside, almost a hundred polaroid photos of Shouyou.

Kiyoomi gingerly takes one out and lets out a laugh, accompanied by a sudden sob. He slowly raises it, matching the forest in front of him.

It’s Shouyou, in the middle of the forest and in the middle of laughing; the sunlight gracing him like a painting, illuminating his sweaty skin. He looks so beautiful. Ethereal.

Kiyoomi stuffs it inside the bag and stares.

His hands shake and he feels like the forest is going to swallow him whole.

He throws the bag inside the deep hole he’d just dug up.

 _This is goodbye_. He thinks, hands shaking as he bends down to take the shovel again. _I’ll be leaving you here, in this forest_.

When he’s done, Kiyoomi throws his coat on top of the hole he’d just dug and falls onto it, chest heaving. He stares up at the trees and the orange and pink sky. He brings a hand up and touches the sunlight with it. His chest heaves as tiredness seeps into his bones and eyes.

Just this once.

Kiyoomi lets the forest embrace him.

Kiyoomi comes back with dirt all over his clothes.

Kiyoomi comes back to an empty house, and an emptier ache in his chest.

He doesn’t know why. He looks at his opened bedroom door, at the sleeping Momo on his bed and wonders what’s missing.

* * *

_I had joked once, of you and the gods, of you and how the gods seemed to love you,_

_a bit too much, yet still too little. How the gods have molded you, with love and affection_

_and yet left you out here, in my grasp, to suffer in my selfish and eager hands._

_I had joked once, of you and your love for love;_

_of you and your hair;_

_of you and your eyes;_

_you and your height._

_We had joked once, of how we were neither the beginning nor the end. Or maybe I did, joking of how you weren’t the end nor the beginning. You’re just a boy, aren’t you?_

_Just a boy._

_Not a finishing line. Not a starting line._

_Just a boy, except._

_I would’ve moved the universe for you._

_The gods moved the universe for you and me. The gods crafted you in their large and powerful hands and gave you to me._

_And yet, with my weak and tarnished hands, I kept you to myself and still drove you away._

_Was freedom the same as letting you go?_

_Was it euphoria or anguish that you bequeathed to me?_

_Was it delight or despair that you bequeathed to me?_

— Sakusa Kiyoomi, _consumed_ (alt. title: _poems to the sun and moon_ )

* * *

Two years have passed. Kiyoomi moved back to the city, looking at the empty and lonely house and feeling like there’s something missing. He had looked at the countless house plants and felt emptiness and confusion. There had been an ache, a tug at how something is missing.

(There isn’t. There never will.)

So.

Kiyoomi comes back to Tokyo, Momo in his arms, head bowed deeply in front of his family.

His sister was the one who took the first step. Hugged him tight and cried on his shoulder, inches shorter than him. Momo had meowed loudly between them and it felt like a spell being broken, the laughter done through sobs, the hard press of a hug, comfortable and open.

Kiyoomi had missed it.

He comes back.

He comes back to volleyball, alongside Atsumu and Koutarou and Meian and Aran and—countless of others, countless of others that Kiyoomi left behind, years ago. Still, they welcome him with open arms. Still, they look at him and laugh.

 _It’s so good to have you back, Sakusa. It was different without you_.

He thinks he’s happier now. Content.

They’re in the middle of practice when it happens.

New players from tryouts.

Meian had mentioned it offhand earlier, though Kiyoomi wasn’t listening.

_“A player from Brazil!” he’d said excitedly, the sound of Atsumu and Bokuto gasping loud. “He’s been training there for two years. I think you guys know him. His high school sounds familiar, look—”_

“Shouyou!” Bokuto’s voice tickles with laughter and joy and Kiyoomi looks up from the gym floor and to their huddled group. He stretches his legs even more. “You grew so much! What’s your height now?”

“Bokuto-san!” someone cries, and a tuft of orange hair jumps up from where Kiyoomi can see past Bokuto’s shoulder. “I’m 172.2 cm now!”

Bokuto laughs loudly, head thrown back. Kiyoomi bends over a little more, this time with a smile. He can’t help but let a small smile slip his lips whenever Bokuto laughs. Or when Atsumu joins him. Kiyoomi has learned to embrace happiness.

“Wow,” Atsumu says teasingly and Kiyoomi looks up at him through his eyelashes. “You barely reached my high school record.”

“Mean, Atsumu-san, Mean!”

This continues for a few minutes, their joined laughter and Kiyoomi staring down at the clean gym floor. He feels a shadow over him, and he sits up a little straighter.

Orange eyes and tanned skin meets his. Kiyoomi blinks.

“Sakusa-san!” he grins at him, bright. A little familiar. “Hello! I’m Hinata Shouyou! It’s great to meet you!”

Kiyoomi blinks at him. Blinks again. Ah.

“Mr. ‘I got a fever and got benched’,” he says like it’s a fact, and somewhere, someone bursts out laughing.

“Ah!” Hinata looks as if he’s in pain, and then regret. “Please don’t say that like it’s some kind of nickname now! And that was years ago!”

Kiyoomi stops a smile from forming and stretches a little more. “I don’t hang around people who don’t know how to manage their health,” he mumbles, stretching out his fingers.

“You don’t have to worry about that!” Hinata says, bright and loud. “I learned from what happened.”

Kiyoomi sits up straight again, looks at him a little more.

“I’m way better about it now.”

Kiyoomi stares at him and offers his hand. “Well, if that’s the case—”

Hinata grasps his hand firmly with a bright grin.

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” Kiyoomi looks at warm, orange eyes and smiles. “Shouyou.”


End file.
